Anonymous Pegasus; The Doomed Clever Scapegrace

by Hifilly

Rating: everyone
Tags: Adventure, Slice of Life, Twilight Sparkle, Drama, Anon, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Second Person, Raven Inkwell
Length: 26989

Anonymous is reincarnated into a small green filly. With a second chance at life she goes about finding meaning in a world of colorful friendship.

Anon awakes in a blizzard in Ponyville, vaguely remembering a past life. Anon tries to reconcile his understandings with an enigmatic new world, and Twilight tries to understand her. During this, Anon is given the opportunity to venture to Canterlot under Celestia's offer, and prepares.

Published 2024-03-04 19:30:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-03-06 00:21:07 UTC

Part 1, Subchapters 1-6

My original idea for this was an Equestria which felt more consistent in terms of technical and social development but quickly turned into something different in my mind entirely. This Equestria is neither that nor what is seen in the show or most stories for that matter. I hope you enjoy this interpretation nonetheless.

Anonymous Pegasus; The Doomed Clever Scapegrace

Part 1

Subchapter 1

You are Anonymous. Somewhere in the ether, you don’t know. Though it was never clear to you in the moment, it wouldn’t surprise you to learn in the future that you had died, though by what you never could surmise, nor the circumstances. There was no empirical method for getting this information later, you had just assumed this was the case because there were very few other things it could have possibly been. Memories of this like, you would come to think, bleed together vaguely like those of early life. Was it your fourth or fifth birthday where you received a beanbag? What were the names of your kindergarten classmates? The days, months, and years leading up to oblivion seem just as distant as those nascent days of awareness. All other memories are plentifully vivid however, as if the knowledge of yourself was surrounded by a haze of happenings and the fable of your life opened in medias res.

You find yourself in a new story. A very cold story it seems, as you feel the painful pricks and tiny jabs of a freezing night gale, snow and the constituent flakes of such pepper all. Freshly awakened in this new state, forced to shake the sleep away by the cold, you take immediate search of your surroundings. Turning your head up from its supine your face is immediately molested by the dry and snow-dusted wind causing you to squint your eyes into little hyphens. It’s nearly pitch dark, though you can make out the impressions of buildings and small amounts of light spilling from windows and door-frames. Your eyesight! It’s remarkable, you’ve never been able to see so well without the aid of lenses! Taken by this newfound vigor of life, you decide that being killed by a blizzard would be the most disappointing death and that making your way to one of these buildings to beg for a lodging and a blanket would be just as fine as a usual morning breakfast. Your immediate attempts at standing end in pitiful failure, as you fall pathetically into the snow and dirt of the road twice over again. Perhaps the cold has made you numb. Looking down at yourself, you quickly put the pieces together. Fur on your body and abundant hair flying wickedly. No fingers. You’re some kind of animal, a mammal, one with hooves unclefted and quadrupedal anatomy. Fascinating! For some reason this morphological deviation doesn’t irk you in the slightest. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise you that a reincarnation could’ve involved an animal, despite this it never crossed your mind that you in all probability would be reborn a quadruped. Death and rebirth, must be it. And no wonder you haven’t frozen to death being asleep out here, this coat is indeed thicker than human body hair. The pelt has a decent fat layer.

Seeing as you’re quadrupedal you will have to walk on all fours. Without much time to think of implications, you carefully step one foot. Hoof, you mean. One in front of the other, 1, 4, 2, 3, and again. In the stormy distance you spot on the iceplain what looks to be a huge tree, maybe some kind of massive oak or willow, hollowed out it seems and fashioned into a domicile. It is the closest structure that seems to be inhabited, you can see a kind of flickering light in the windows. The remaining area seems to be a village, the houses look quite archaic from what you can make out in the darkness. Bitter chill gusts sting your body’s starboard and eyes, still hyphenated, as you come upon ending your approach on the tree. Tapping the door with your hoof, precariously balancing yourself on tripod legs, you notice how large it is relative to your body’s size.

Finally beginning to process the implications of everything, you suddenly feel very afraid of what is to come. You, evidently an animal, have just knocked upon the door of some unknown but intelligent civilization without considering whether they will even be the same species as you. If they’re humans, chances are they will shoo you off or worse try to kill you. You feel so stupid for not even thinking of this possibility! If you weren’t already frazzled by the situation, this put you into a state of rustlement to which you know no equal. Under a state of internal panic you hear the door handle begin to creak and click and rattle, to which you nearly fling yourself vertical. The door opens a crack and then ripped suddenly versowise as the wind, you suspect, catches it. Befuddled by the startling events from the past few moments you don’t notice the lavender being in front of you, nor do you seem to notice the muzzy nebulous purple formed around your field of view until the terminal moment of already being within the house, the door already reclosed.

“Are you out of your mind?! What in the world are you doing out there?” a voice says to you.

“Huh?” you reply, stunned by the information processing throttle you’re experiencing. Your voice is very high. You wonder how it is that this animal physiology is even capable of human speech. There seems to be directly to your right what looks like a horse, probably female, obviously very cross with you, purple in color and singular horn on full display. What is she, some kind of exhibitionist? Put that damn thing away!

“I don’t know why you were out there or who left you out there, but you need to get warm immediately! Do you know how fast hypothermia can set in?” the purple girl said in a panic, trotting up to brush the snow from your head and torso. You let her swipe away the snow and dirt and look over to see a wall of books and papers. Quite the personal library she has.

“Uh, I don’t know why I was out there. I just remember waking up in the snow and walking to wherever was closest,” you replied, eggshells about this girl’s panic, veritably confused yourself. You weren’t technically lying, that really is all you remember. However, you choose to withhold the theory that you are reincarnated from another world. The last thing you want after being reborn is thrown into an asylum. Though the probability of that happening in reality is most likely low, you weren’t about to experiment to find out with something as dangerous as that, however silly that might sound. Not mentioning all the problems admitting such a thing would cause. You wipe the melting snow from your face.

“That’s horrible! You poor thing! Quickly, get by the stove, you need to get warm! I’ll bring you something to wrap yourself in,” said the now hustling horse, galloping away to fetch a blanket most likely.

You take in the room. Besides books, there are desks and chairs dotted about the organically shaped perimeter. The wood walls are carved and painted with scrollwork and corolla mandalas, little foliaceous decoration. Some blue, some yellow. Dainty lamps and candles upon sconces seat flammules atop their wicks which seem to desperately bounce and flip in a struggle with all their flammule might to illuminate the area. Near the center, though not quite within the center of the room, is a potbelly stove in full operation, the brightest illumination in the room, with a small wood-pile adjacent, certainly the thing keeping the tree from freezing over on the inside. At the very center is a table with a wooden sculpture of a horse placed in the middle, books tattered about all over, the sculpture observing you, a sentinel for the books. Books as far as the eye can see, literally. By the far end is a staircase leading to a second floor which the purple horse hurried up to. You eye the potbelly stove, above the door there’s a brand, Cookie and Grape and Co. Funny names those are. You think you would’ve noticed a chimney from the outside, smoke or anything coming from the other houses. As far as you recall there was no such chimney. The warmth of the house has melted the snow that was left unbrushed away by the purple horse. You notice just how cold you really are. This added wetness by thawed near-freezing water is no help. God damn, you are cold! You take up refuge by the stove, careful not to touch the burning thing.

The purple girl, you really should ask her name, comes nearly flying down the stairs after about a minute. She comes bearing a quilt, a towel, and a pillow. What’s fascinating about this is the fact that these objects are seemingly suspended in mid-air by nothing, just some purple light. She’s using light to pick up objects? As far as you know, levitation is only possible with very powerful lasers and granule-sized diamonds, not any ordinary objects. All thoughts stop in their tracks witnessing this. With your mouth slightly agape in awe the girl levitates the towel to you and begins to rub you down with it. Slightly startled by this and taken out of your entrancement with the floating feat, you squirm mildly under the towel like a cat as it soaks up the excess freezing water from your coat and hair, a tiny unconscious annoyed groan escaping you. Towel now removed seemingly effective and hair and coat positively mussed beyond recognition, you shake the disorderly bundle out of your eyes as the girl gently drapes the quilt over your shoulders, finally a look of happiness on her face you catch after having done what she had set out to do.

“Really, I’m okay. The stove was doing its job fine, you needn’t worry yourself so much,” you say, somewhat uncomfortable about being furbished so vigorously. If your voice is really this high you are probably female too. That jounces you a little, you certainly didn’t feel like a girl, if that was even a meaningful feeling one could have. As far as you can tell there weren’t any psychological changes. You didn’t feel like you were going insane either, though that statement in and of itself is rather meaningless, for insanity precludes the awareness of insanity. You sit down on your haunches and notice an absence. That was it. The deed was already made up, there is nothing to done about it, no sense being upset over something that can be worried about at a later time. You exhale a sigh in mild disappointment and let your gaze drift laterigrade to the popping stove, the light gamboling in the air-vent. The girl sits next to you.

“What’s your name, little filly? Your parents must be worried sick for you, it’s so late in the night and with this blizzard you were lucky to get out of it when you did. Do you know where you live?” says the purple horse, resting an arm on your shoulders. Err, leg, you mean. You know, the absurdity of this situation is beginning to dawn on you. Your mind is evidently still trying to integrate this knowledge into your mental schema. She levitated those things with her mind, she’s a unicorn by all possible definitions, the purple glow came from her horn. You yourself are green in color. You think that if this were a hallucination, there’s no way the figures in that would tell you if you were hallucinating. This feels plenty real, the cold, the heat, the quilt, everything you’ve seen doesn’t feel inconsistent, things aren’t randomly changing to other things, just odd impossibilities. Your throat feels a bit dry. You look up at the girl.

“Can you tell me where I am? My name is Anon, and I don’t know where I live,” you say, darting your eyes to the fire once more. Again, not technically a lie, you don’t know where you live, nor where you are, nor what is really going on. You should probably start planning on establishing some kind of security, a way to make sure you don’t freeze to death or starve in case she kicks you out. That’s pretty unlikely. You’re just a helpless kid after all, at least to her. Filly, she called you, which means you were right in assuming they were horses. Crazy world, huh?

“You’re in Ponyville. You don’t remember where you live?” said the horse, terrified look on her face. She got up to fetch a pen and paper from the desk, holding it with her purple light. She seemed to write something, probably your name.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to help me tonight, given the powerful blizzard outside. You won’t mind me staying here tonight?” you ask, almost worried she would say no. Why would she do that? That’s so dumb to think.

“Of course you can stay, that goes without saying. I just need more information so we can find your parents. What are their cutie marks?” says the now more determined girl, calmed and looking almost excited about what your answer will be. You freeze. You don’t know what a cutie mark is, nor do you technically have parents in this world. Should you lie? It doesn’t seem like a lie you can get away with if it’s the first thing she’s asking about your parents, you’ll just have to show your ignorance. This was bound to happen eventually.

“I don’t know my parents,” you say, genuinely a bit dejected, “What is a cutie mark?”

“You don’t know what a cutie mark is?” says the girl, looking rather stunned by your question. Maybe that was a bad question to ask. You cringe slightly at your lack of forethought. You already knew she would think of you as an orphan if you said you didn’t know your parents, but now she must think you’re completely uneducated. Why do you never think of these things? Well, if you are already this far gone, might as well jump into the deep end.

“No, and how are you doing that?” you say, pointing to the purple light surrounding the pen and paper. The girl looks to the pen and paper and then back to you with an eyebrow raised.

“This?” says the girl, moving and twirling the pen around with the light, “With my magic. You know? Levitation.” You look incredulously at her with your own raised eyebrow.

“Magic?”

“Yeah”

“How?”

“With my horn. You don’t have one, you’re a pegasus,” says the magical horse girl. What? You immediately turn your head to your torso and look for what she’s implying. It’s true, you really do have wings. You move your hoof to try and touch them but it’s a bit of a stretch, you reach only a few feathers. They set back pretty far, and they extend to your haunches. You’re pretty sure bird’s wings are made of hollow flight feathers, but these feel too elastic, though they are very soft. You didn’t feel them at all when you were laying down, do they not have sensory nerves? You’d think you’d have felt them with all the snow, but until she pointed it out you didn’t feel anything. You guess there are certain body parts you don’t notice consciously unless you focus attention on them, why would this be any different? The magical girl looks at you with confused worry as you tap and prod at your newfound extensions, curious of their nature. You’re well within the deep end now it seems from the look on her face, you need to choose your words carefully to not make the situation worse while also getting pertinent information.

“Is everyone a pegasus or unicorn? And can anyone do magic?” you say with a little grin on your face. You leave out that you didn’t know that magic was real, that would be too much for the girl, though she probably surmised your thoughts anyway given the contorted face she was making.

“No… There are earth ponies as well…” says the increasingly worried magical horse girl in another world, “Anon, what happened to you?” That’s a strange question. She must think you’re some kind of feral child, or that you were abused and left to fend for yourself. That you have severe amnesia. This isn’t good, if she’s this worried about you now she’ll probably try to send you to the hospital or shrink.

“I don’t remember anything miss, all I remember is waking up in the snow. What’s your name miss?” you say, trying to put on an extra confused and innocent face. Now you were prevaricating, but this is necessary given the circumstances, you assure yourself. The less conflict you can get out of this the better, and you didn’t feel like dancing around a doctor’s questions. The wind battered the windows and shook them, ice and snowfall visible through the glass zipping orthogonal about like gnats upon a lone street lamp.

The girl seemed to ponder on this question, for what reason you couldn’t surmise. The roar of the stove and the wind and windows and the pops of wood and ash filled the silence. She shuffled a bit and looked down slightly, her eyes in deep thought, and nodded and looked back up. She eyed you and pursed her lips, inhaled slow and deeply, then let it go. A smile fell upon her, and a spirit of resolution filled her face, and her eyes glinted as if all this worry beforehand were folly and the lines of fate fell within her favor, and that the day could not have gone finer. She looked at you with a grin.

“My name is Twilight Sparkle. Are you hungry, Anon?” she said, turning her head towards the stairs. You were, in fact you wouldn’t be surprised if this stomach were entirely empty, save digestive fluids.

“Very, I haven’t eaten in a while,” you say with an exasperated smile. Both smiling now, you stand, the quilt falling from your shoulders, but plenty warm and dry. Trotting over to the stairs and up, Twilight Sparkle leads you to the second floor.

“It’s warmer up here than down there,” she says, already at the top of the staircase.

“I know, hot air rises,” you say somewhat as a matter of fact. You can’t tell what this person thinks of you, but you can only imagine stupid. You feel irritated. You catch Twilight glancing back to you for a second with a ponderous look on her face as you reach the top of the stairs, grappling on to the railing like a sloth. “It’s less dense. The molecules being more spread apart spatially at a given moment due to their velocities being higher, their collisions being more energetic. Higher velocities mean they’re further apart from one another on average due to their high energy collisions, equal and opposite reactions and all that, so any given amount of warm air will be more buoyant than the same cold air, usually,” you add, sneaking cold eyes at her. You can tell her attitude about you not knowing what cutie marks were hurt you a little, this was your method of repairing that hurt, however trivial. The last thing you want is to be treated like a helpless kid, though you suppose that’s unavoidable in most cases given your appearance. Most kids don’t understand heat convection, you hope for your comment to give her the right idea. She doesn’t seem like a person who would take offense to being explained to. You don’t understand this impetus, it floods you with querulous inferiority. You feel ashamed. Twilight seems to think about this explanation for a few moments and just smiles.

“That’s true! Don’t worry Anon, there’s no judgment going on here,” She says, turning around, “You been put through a horrible situation, if you can’t remember certain details then who am I to judge you for that?” she says pointing a hoof at her chest as to single herself out. This is some of what you were worried about, unwitting assumptions about your past. You can’t blame her you suppose. She treads to a cupboard, various small wooden boxes line the counter, probably holding spices. Glassware and bottles populate the cupboard, they hold some pickled food you can’t quite make out. You see wine, unopened. Not a drinker you suppose. She procures a glass box from the back, it’s frosted over. Removing the glass cover with her magic you see inside the food of the gods. Chocolate ice cream. “Do you like ice cream?” Twilight says, presenting the frosted box to you.

“How is it frozen?” you ask benightedly.

“Magic.”

“Should’ve figured,” you reply with an eye-roll. “If you can freeze ice cream with magic why can’t you heat the house with magic?” You lift a hoof in a petulant display.

“It would take far too much magical energy, and this is frozen by an enchantment. As far as I know, it’s magically impossible to enchant something to heat up.” she replied in a satisfied tone, almost as if recalling an encyclopedia. I suppose that makes about as much sense as you could force into that answer, heating stuff takes energy, I’m sure there’s some book here that explains it further. “Well?” she interrupts your thought, “Do you want any?”

“I would love some.”

2

Perhaps you shouldn’t be so supercilious thinking this girl judges you so. You do barely know her, and though you’d like to think you can read people well enough to tell what they’re thinking, it’s not possible to be certain of anything yet. Usually you don’t let your ego get the best of you, there was no reason to be upset. Perhaps it’s the situation itself which is making you feel like you have something to prove. Why this is the case and why is it different from before? You do not know. You are feeling better after eating.

The third floor of the house, or maybe it’s better to say tree-house, is much smaller than the first two floors, a tiny room where the chimney sprouts centrally and the risen air makes it almost sweltering. Scant furniture other than a small bentwood and a tweed-looking wingback, along with a tiny desk for the bentwood. Of course, there are books ubiquitously scattered, shelves chockablock. There are a few pots holding flowers, maybe daisies, very blue in color, even the disk flowers are a deep blue, definitely not any species or anthographic type that you know. A telescope pointing upwards out a window reflects peeking moonlight onto the ceiling. The sconces in this room seem to illuminate better given the small area. Curious though is a small dog-bed, basket-weaved and with a little light-blue blanket. You can tell there’s some creature beneath it. Twilight told you it was a dragon, a foundling, one she calls Spike. Funny enough that it’s a dog’s name, you thought, but a dragon seemed very dangerous to have in one’s bedroom. You decided not to question her, best let those sleeping dragons lie. It grumbled and turned and you could see the scales like little armored blisters, purple in color, just like a reptile! It’s merely another thing to add to the mountain of new information today, dragons and magic don’t fit with how you usually think. After, you idly paced, somewhat spaced out. You collect yourself.

You are standing near the stairs to a loft, probably where she sleeps. You don’t suppose she has any other bedding for you. You are flexing your muscles in your back, and you feel your wings wiggle a little. They’re like awkward crippled arms. She seems to be busying herself with some writing at her desk, scraping a feather pen with her amethyst glow. In this meantime you decide to obliquely snoop, just at the books. Trotting over to the wall-shelf with a clog—quadrupeds sure are skillful at walking, unlike yourself—you peep the spine. It’s in English, Poetical Process. You suppose you shouldn’t be too surprised, though you breathe a small sigh of relief since you might have had to learn a totally different system of English writing. Even worse, learn some other language specifically for academic writing, like Latin. Earlier, you observed Twilight grab a spoon with just her hoof to eat the ice cream you shared. When you presented trouble with this she was very accommodating and fed you a little, much to your discomfort, and only after your protests then did she decide to show you how to grab things. Apparently, it’s like a hand, you simply flex muscles in your hoof and things stick to it. Her explanation for this was magical glands at the frog, though no matter how hard you looked in the candlelight there was nothing there to indicate any gland at all. You reach out and flex, the book sticks and you pull it away from the shelf. Flipping through some pages it seems to be a collection of essays on poetry compiled from various authors, what makes a good poem, how to write compelling poetry. Might be interesting for later, though you’re not sure how long you’re going to be staying here. You highly doubt she’s going to keep you, but she doesn’t seem like she’s going to throw you out either. She’s probably thinking about who to take you to. After skimming an essay on tragic poetry you look to Twilight, who seems to have finished her writing and is just staring at you. Creepy!

“Do you like books?” she says, donning a smile that’s somewhere between smug and amused.

“I like reading, sure. I used to read all the time.”

“Do you remember where you used to read?” Twilight says, raising her eyebrows. You suppose you’ll have to lie again.

“I don’t… I just know that I like reading,” you say, closing the book and looking down, trying to seem dejected. Lying was morally detestable, but to you it was always worth it to obfuscate the truth to make things better for everyone, and that includes yourself. You highly doubted that she could do anything about your previous life’s death, despite the magical powers she has shown so far. Not that you really cared for her to. As far as you were concerned this is your new life, and if she can’t fix the past, which no one can, then she doesn’t need to know.

“Come on, I think it’s a good time for bed. We can do more about your situation tomorrow, you must be tired anyway, and a filly needs her sleep,” she said with a beam, walking to the staircase of the loft after blowing out the few sconces in the room. You join her and struggle getting atop the stairs, nearly falling, what with your egregious balance already making it difficult to walk. Halfway up she helps you with a heave and pull and you fall down beside her with your forelegs splayed and face in the floor, wings splattered about. You take your place under the cover of the blanket with Twilight, the wind battering the solitary window within the loft. You find rest among the white-noise of the blizzard, and Twilight pulls you in to warm you through the night.

When you wake the dawn shoots photonic daggers of nuclear luminescence into your pupils, causing you to jerk and snap upwards avoiding the onslaught. Rubbing your eyes in frustration and looking around harried you notice that you are still a horse, still in a tree, and that Twilight isn’t in the bed with you. You swear revenge on the sun, who is far too dangerous to be left alive. Sighing away the left over sleep you look out the window at the day-lit village, careful to block the direct sunlight with a hoof. You were right in thinking those houses were archaic. Thatched roofing, European style, maybe wheat straw. The walls are half-timbered and covered with plaster, probably filled how they were in the middle ages with wattle and daub and stones, possibly brick as well, the windows seem fixed and imperfect, some aren’t, and they have little snow-covered window hedging. This society really is archaic, though they have chocolate ice cream and antigravity gramarye. This simply confuses you more. You look around the room again, the windows lighting it many times more than the tiny candles could ever hope to. Your hair is a mess, both from the blizzard and from the bed. Hopefully Twilight has a brush somewhere. Tip-toeing, or hoofing you suppose, down the stairs of the loft you fall once again on your face. She really should have a railing or something to hold on to! Shaking the pain away you trundle downstairs. There at the first floor, Twilight is conversing with the dragon she told you about. You freeze at the top of the first floor staircase, your face wreathed and flabbergast. Sure, talking dragons, why not? I mean, after all that’s happened this should be nothing.

You slip. Tumbling suddenly like some adamantine figure in a landslide you hit all the bases: the head, the legs, the torso, the back, your wings which you actually feel this time, and the ass as you journey gravitationally to the first floor. The fall is violent and as you finally hit the floor you roll into a table, smacking the right side of your head into the sharp tabletop with a horrific thud. Somehow by a miracle this doesn’t knock you out, but man you are in pain. Basically your entire body stings and aches, and your head is throbbing violently and you can’t hear what the girl lifting you up is saying because of the piercingly loud ringing in your ears and how in pain you are, given how you’ve probably concussed yourself. Why did you let this happen to you? You’re so stupid. Twilight didn’t tell you the reptile could talk. You are going to have to go to the hospital, which pretty much wastes all your effort from before. You suppose you don’t care anymore, you’re in too much pain to be thinking about anything other than anodynes.

Twilight lifts you with her magic and places you upon her back, though you are a bit big you adjust yourself to balance there. The cold of the outdoors hits your body and causes you to shiver even with your furry pelt. The sun, precious thing, does graciously heat your side. Lifting a hoof to your head you carefully touch the effected area. You are bleeding quite a bit, though you think you recall that the scalp has many capillaries which make small wounds seem exaggerated by how much blood they transport. Twilight is running at this point, and you feel very disoriented and nauseous, unable to keep your sight straight ahead. Twilight has to use her magic multiple times to keep you from falling off her. You try very hard not to vomit, and frankly you don’t see yourself as particularly prone to vertigo and dizziness, usually you can ignore it, but the intensity is far too much and you expel your stomach contents onto the graveled road next to Twilight. When it’s empty, your body resorts to dry-heaving. Blood is beginning to bug your right eye so you have to squeeze it shut. You feel like you’re going to pass out.

Coming upon the hospital which is similarly constructed to all the other buildings here you are a bit nervous given how antique everything else seems in this world. So long as they don’t bring out the leeches you suppose you don’t care what they do. Twilight rips open the door and begins asking frantically for help. Your mind is beginning to resurface a little cleaner, and you can pay attention to what they are saying.

“She fell down the stairs into a table, I think she’s concussed!”

“It’s okay miss, let’s get her on the gurney. We will take it from here.”

Okay, maybe not that well. Your mind pulses and blood bugs your other eye now too. Being wheeled away and laying on the gurney, the head throbbing begins to worsen from the new position, and the doctor seems to grab something from his bag and place it on your head. It’s glass-looking and curved in shape so as to fit around the forehead, orange or something between yellow and orange, and after the doctor seems to interact with it with another object, a purple crystal or something, it begins to glow a soft grapefruit color. Immediately you begin to feel tired, and after a few moments of fighting whatever was causing this you fall into unconsciousness.

3

Again, no dream. Not from last night nor from just moments ago for you. You are in a hospital room lying on a bed. The room itself is very clean and honestly rather elegant looking. There’s blue wallpaper with little swoops and lovely natural wooden wainscoting, the floor beige tiles of alternating tones. Recalling the events of this morning you check yourself. You have bruising all over your torso and forelegs, as well as your flanks. Your wings don’t seem to be bandaged or broken. It stings to do anything with your limbs, so you carefully remove the blanket covering you. It’s not too cold, thankfully. You don’t seem to be hooked up to anything, no IVs or monitors, just you and the bed. Though there does seem to be a rack for hanging IVs, so you suspect they exist. No monitor at all though. You do see a sphygmomanometer on the far wall, an old mercury one, along with other equipment you don’t know the names of. You’re still trying to parse the level of technology these people, or ponies rather, have. Your head doesn’t hurt at all though, but you are hesitant to touch anywhere near there, you do feel that it’s bandaged.

Though it may be somewhat irresponsible you are rather bored, you decided to sit and take in the silence for a minute or so before it became intolerable, and you have to pee. Given all these factors you decide to get up and explore, looking for a bathroom. Your hooves on the chilly linoleum give you goosebumps. You wipe your nose, which stings your bruised foreleg accidentally. Being injured is very unpleasant you are finding out. You open the door and peak out, there’s a nurse walking your way.

“Excuse me, miss. Do you know where the bathroom is?” you ask, stepping out of the doorway into the hall. You hope not to spook anyone with how many bruises you have but she doesn’t seem all that nonplussed about it. Such mental fortitude must come with being medically oriented, you’re rather thankful for that actually.

“I sure do, little filly. Would you like me to take you there?” the nurse replied, a little country accent, a professional smile made just for kids on her mug. You don’t find it too offensive, people naturally act differently towards children, and you can appreciate how nice her smile is and how hard she has practiced it. It really is a comfort.

“Yes please, ma’am. Also miss, do you know where the purple unicorn who brought me in here is?” you inquire, hoping to get some information that will make it easier to get out of here. Because you are a child, at least you suspect you are a minor, you expect to be unable to leave on your own accord. You haven’t been to a doctor in years, as far as you remember, so that might be wrong. You don’t know how it works here though, so having Twilight to help you is a priority.

“Yes, she’s been in the foyer since you’ve arrived. I can tell her you’re awake if you’d like,” she says.

“That would be fine, but after I use the bathroom,” you say. You and the nurse traverse the few halls of the hospital to the bathroom. You are a girl in this world, you must remember, so you must use the girl’s room. You wonder how this toilet situation is going to work. When you arrive the nurse looks at you.

“You don’t need any assistance in there, yes?” she asks. It might be necessary for her to ask that, you don’t know, and honestly given the bruises on your ass you might end up wanting help, but you decide to decline.

“No, I think I’ll be fine on my own,” you say with your own professional smile. It’s not as elegant as hers though.

The nurse nods and you make your way in. Eyeing the silver mirror you finally see yourself. Black hair, pretty long but not crazy long, rather thick and a bit of a bird’s nest at the moment, but still not too bad looking. Your wings are jointed like an eagle’s, green in color like the rest of your coat. Your eyes are green too, emerald or jade, and your eyelashes are black and long. You don’t know beauty standards here, but you wouldn’t say you look ugly or offensive, other than the bandage on your head. You kind of wished you asked the time, there are no clocks in here, just the weird greasy wall tiles, so you have no idea how long you’ve been out. In your room it was still daylight, but whether it had been four or eight hours or more was a mystery. Looking to your right you see a rather normal looking toilet. Plumbing in general is advanced, the technology needed to pump water like we do in the modern age is more than what you’ve seen so far. Maybe they use magic, you haven’t seen a single electronic device or even anything with a motor, though you haven’t seen much of anything in the first place. You decide to pre-flush it for a test. The water turns around the bowl with a swish and flushes out, popping and gulping lowly as the air trapped beneath rises to the surface of the bowl water again. You lift the lid of the tank to see what’s going on. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, the water is filling the tank like it would in a modern toilet with modern plumbing. This thoroughly confuses you, but that confusion is quickly wicked away by your sudden urge to relieve yourself. Turns out balancing on the toilet seat isn’t as hard as you thought, and there thankfully weren’t any issues with the contusions on your legs. Wiping was hard, you had to balance on one hoof and carefully clean yourself with the other, but overall it went well. You did not attempt to use your wings to balance, there’s not enough control yet.

Stepping out of the room you see the nurse, who was evidently waiting the entire time, or maybe she went to inform Twilight and came back. You exchange a few words with her and walk the queer papered halls to your room. You see many other nurses and doctors perambulating through the corridors as you come upon your door. Looking inside, Twilight and a doctor are conversing with each other. You sigh, doctor’s questions are one of your few genuine displeasures. Let’s get this over with. You open the door with a creak and Twilight looks your way and you make a small effort to show that you don’t feel hurt, even though you do mildly. You spot his watch. The doctor speaks first.

“Well Anon, it seems you had quite a fall.”

“Do you have the time?” you interrupt. The doctor betrays only for a moment a tiny vexed look. He checks his watch.

“It’s 4:19, why?” the doctor asks with a somewhat confused look.

“I’m certain I didn’t wake up late this morning, and I must have been out for a while since these bruises are pretty well developed, but when the nurse said that Twilight had been here all day I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t confirm anything without a proper time. Were you really here for over seven hours?” you ask Twilight, looking over with eyebrows raised. You’d be a bit surprised at her tenacity if she were. Twilight’s face softens.

“No, I had to deal with other things and speak with other ponies about what to do with you,” Twilight says, her practiced smile showing. Still not as elegant as the nurse’s. You’ll interrogate her later, but before that the doctor decides to speak up.

“Ahem, we treated you with some magic, and although you should be fine we couldn’t do these checks because you arrived pretty incoherent, and the magic for treating you causes unconsciousness. If you don’t mind sitting here so I can ask some questions and get a reading on how you’re feeling now,” says the doctor, opening his hoof towards the bed. You decide to comply and take a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Because they didn’t have any previous medical history for you I gave them all the information I had,” Twilight adds, looking a bit sheepish about the thing. I don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about, maybe you’re misreading her.

“Now, Anon, what is your date of birth?” asks the doctor.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know your age?”

“I do not.”

“Going by your appearance you seemed to be between 10 and 11. Do you have any preexisting medical conditions?”

“Not to my knowledge”

“Do you recall the events leading up to the accident?”

“I do.”

“And what were those?”

“I recall making my way downstairs, and after seeing Twilight’s baby dragon talk I lost focus and slipped, falling down the entirety of the staircase and rolling into the edge of a tabletop, feeling incredible pain and dizziness, Twilight carrying me here, and you placing that curved thing on my head,” you reply. You know, this doctor sure is acting strange, he’s being almost too terse, his questions aren’t very penetrating, and his word choice is as if he didn’t think you were a kid. He has the social skill of gauche carbon. Everyone’s different you suppose, but this is an uncommon sight. The doctor scratches his slick brown mane.

“Mhm, now I want you to look into this light I’m holding,” says the doctor, pulling out a small flashlight. Now that’s interesting, is it magic or is it electric? The light shines into your eyes momentarily and the doctor looks at you, nods to himself, then places the light into his jacket pocket.

“Is that light powered by magic?” you ask.

“Yes, there’s a tiny light emerald inside. You can’t use it to light a house though, they are too expensive,” says the doctor with a winking smirk, now showing the kind of behavior one would present to a kid asking a naive question. What a strange guy, honestly. An emerald that emits a little light, I’m sure that if they could use that to heat things they would have, must be too little to be practical. It makes you question what Twilight meant specifically by impossible.

“What about the treatment, the curved glass thing?” you ask, making an arcing motion with your hoof.

“That is a neuronal repair crystal, a specialized piece of equipment that rearranges brain structure and reverses decay to a fixed point in the past. It only works in reversing damage two hours after it’s been done, which is why we hurried to put it on you. We didn’t know how long ago you had been injured,” says the doctor matter of factly. A dumbfounding factoid has wiggled into your brain. This world’s medical technology doesn’t seem to be as advanced as yours in the sense that you understand technology, but magic changes everything. A piece of technical equipment that could do something like that in your world would be priceless, but here they don’t even have electricity! In that case, why not heal your entire body?

“If that’s possible, then why not heal all of my contusions?” you ask, somewhat annoyed that they didn’t.

“I don’t believe there are any magical artifacts capable of doing that,” replies the doctor puzzled. It seems magic is quite a crutch here, but no matter, it’s a miracle that you can heal the brain so easily, even if your concussion was probably non-life-threatening. So what if bruises take longer? The body will heal by itself. You are positively giddy with this information, your grin a little white keyboard.

After the last few questions the doctor finally decides to cut you loose, seeing as you were effectively treated and there was nothing more for them to do. Quite different from your world in many ways, though somewhat less organized and more informal, this hospital was at least tolerable. You still think it’s highly strange though. You can’t explain it, maybe Twilight did something. As you exit the building and the dry bitter air wicks away the moisture from your eyes Twilight turns to you with a concerned look.

“Anon, I’m happy that you are at least somewhat okay after what happened this morning, but when we get back we need to talk about something more serious,” Twilight says with a frown, looking away nervously.

“I know, you are probably arranging a home for me, being completely without parents or guardians it’s the only logical thing to do,” you reply neutrally, trying to keep the cold air out of your eyes. Twilight looks away and doesn’t speak.

The rest of the walk home was uneventful. The sun was beginning to set, the great thing pulsing away, orange and fierce looking, but pitifully cold. The snow along the road flowed and curved like a body, and the surface baked in the weak sun causing it to ice over. The stones nibbled at your hooves, and by the end you were just about skipping along the frozen cobble. Thankfully there was no ice grown upon the path. When you arrived the tree-house was cool, not cold, and Twilight placed a few pieces of wood in the stove and opened the air-vent. Quietly warming yourself by the stove, no words spoken from either of you, Twilight goes to fetch something from the second floor, or maybe the third. You know you have caused her a lot of grief, though it wasn’t technically your fault nor hers, you feel bad for all the tumult being waged within her. You wouldn’t trade this life for death just to ameliorate the damage, however, but you can be allowed to feel sorry for the random hurt caused by your appearance. After a few minutes of warming yourself, the heat bouncing off your wounds peaking the blood-flow, and Twilight not yet coming back down for her discussion, you decide to with enormous care travel up the stairs to see what’s keeping her. When you reach her room after taking minutes wrapping your forelegs around the railings, careful not to bother the bruises, shuffling your frail equine body step after step like some elderly arthritic, you see Twilight and her dragon talking and her furiously writing. Twilight hands the letter to Spike with her magic and the dragon proceeds to incinerate it with fire-breath. That’s ridiculous, a fire-breathing dragon that small. What is the point in writing all of that if you are just going to burn it? Some therapeutic ritual? Like those people who burn their diaries?

“What’s the point in writing if you’re just going to burn it?” you ask, interrupting their quiet conversation. Twilight jerks and drops her pen, Spike just eyes you.

“Oh! Anon, you scared me!” Twilight says, holding a hoof to her chest as if she were close to a heart-attack, “It’s not being burned, Spike’s breath is magical, it sends the parchment to my teacher.” You nod a bit surprised, though really you should stop at this point, being surprised that is. It’s an instant messaging system, that’s pretty convenient.

“I didn’t know you had a teacher of any sort, are you a student in college?” you ask, somewhat surprised that one would commit to studies so far away from anything that looks remotely like a university. This town was very small, there definitely wasn’t a college here, but you suppose with an instant transmission dragon you could study a degree anywhere you want, at least you guess in this archaic society.

“No, it’s more of an apprenticeship, I finished my formal magic studies a while ago,” says Twilight, a little arrogant beam on her face. That’s fine, she certainly seemed smart, and with her basically living in a library you aren’t that surprised. Her arrogance seems well deserved, only rascals are modest. She gets up from her bentwood and trots to the center of the room, beckoning you and pointing a hoof at the wingback, probably wanting you to sit. You take a seat. Twilight removes the bandages from your head and tosses them to the side of the chair. She magics over a hairbrush and begins to pull it through your hair, softly and thoroughly.

“So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?” you ask, reclining a bit into the chair cushioning. That feels really good, you haven’t sat in a proper chair in a while. You haven’t had your hair brushed in forever. It’s heavenly.

“Well before, I had arranged for you to be sent to the Canterlot orphanage, but I’ve been talking with my teacher for a while and she’s decided to assist you!”

“Assist in what way?”

“She’ll be able to take you in, house you, make sure you’re given good care, and provide you an education, she seemed pretty interested,” says Twilight, sounding rather excited about the prospect.

“And who is this teacher with the resources to just take in a filly? I don’t mind being sent away, but at least give me some information about the place you’re sending me.”

“You’ll be sent to the capital, Canterlot. As for my teacher, well,” Twilight looks sheepish as she paws the floor with her hoof halting the brushing, giving it a few light taps. “For most of my education I’ve been under the direct tutelage of Princess Celestia.”

You decide to give her two eyebrows raised and an awed mouth. Honestly you have no idea who this pony is, but with a title like princess she must be important in some way. Another thing to research later.Twilight continues brushing your hair. You wonder if this is a stroke of luck from God himself that you happened upon the personal protege of a royal princess, and that princess for some reason decided to take you in, or if it’s an act of cruelty that your expectations may be utterly subverted, and this will turn into a horrible tragedy. Is this strategy or just whimsical ditsy? Ditsy individuals with power can be dangerous. You’re probably being overly paranoid, but it’s best to prepare for anything. Twilight finishes brushing your hair and sets the implement down at her desk. You need more information. You straighten up and put on a serious face.

“And what precisely are going to be the conditions there? Where will I be staying, what school will I go to, and what exactly will be expected of me when I arrive? When do we depart? And by what means?” You query, trying to count the questions on your nonexistent fingers.

“I think you’ll be staying in the imperial palace but the princess didn’t say how your education would be handled. I trust her to make the best choice though. We leave in two days, the princess will send pegasus chariots to pick you up, I need to stay here in Ponyville to continue my studies, I’ll tell you when we need to get ready,” Twilight says, patting you on the head.

“Are there any other personal students of the princess?” you ask.

“No, just me, as far as I know.”

“Do you think the princess is interested because she wants to take on more students?”

“I’m not sure, the whole reason why I became her student was because of my magical talent, but she didn’t seem bothered by my asking for help. It was her who suggested taking you personally,” Twilight answers, a confident smile appearing before you.

“And precisely why would a princess be interested in some random filly?”

“That’s a question you’d have to ask her yourself, though I know the princess always has some plan in mind, and that you’ll be well taken care of,” Twilight says assuredly.

4

You have a mild passion for rural life, it’s quiescent and unbothered, even if encumbered by manual duties some of the time. You acknowledge the lack of opportunity in those institutionally deprived environments, the methods for any powerful flourishing being inherently quashed by the limited population. Not that you judge local community leaders and artists poorly, merely that you know they’re less efficacious where they stand. Those whose temperamental style align with that of the city, however, rarely provide themselves the skills needed for the greatness wanted desperately by those who rule over them. It’s a little veridical paradox, rural temperament is good for the city betterment, and city temperament is good for, well, supporting the leaders of the city. Perhaps it would be best for leaders of the city to survey the countryside in search of a local leader and elevate him to the level of king, that would be a good way to select against corrupt leadership, or to even more hectoraway corruption, government of the random, government by jury. How Platonic of you, but that’s all theory, it’s never been done before in the old world so you aren’t sure how that would work out. Of course, the leading factor in all of this is competency, it doesn’t matter what your temperament is if you fail at all your duties. Given you’re aware of your competency in at least a few things which generalize here, you have decent education as far as you remember, the main concern is temperament. Temperament relating specifically to the position being foisted upon you by the princess herself. You wouldn't describe yourself as morose or curmudgeonly in the least, but you fear for what a misstep in language could cause in someone that high on, someone you don't know whatsoever. You can’t imagine why the princess would choose to bring you into her household, but you can only imagine it’s for some pathological reason. Now that you actually have time to prepare for this new environment, it’s best you get all the data you can fit into your tiny green equine head. First thing’s first. You hop out of the stellated blanket and onto the floor then carefully make your way down the stairs. Twilight is very good at not waking you up when getting out of bed, that or you’re just a really heavy sleeper now, you don’t know. You’ve gotten a little bit better at walking on stairs, such that traversing the floors of the tree-house doesn’t require a hospital visit. It seems your practice last night paid off. You see Twilight on the first floor reading a volume, sitting adjacent to the stove on a little wooden slatback. She turns her head to you.

“Twilight, where’s the encyclopedia?” you ask, somewhat frantic to get started on this research. Obviously with no Internet, the next best thing is an encyclopedia. You’ll probably need more involved history books as well, but there’s only so much you can do in two days. Twilight puts her book down on a far table with her magic and stands up.

“It’s just over here, let me show you,” says Twilight, walking over to the far left of the room and pointing to a series of books near a rectangular table. Perfect, though a nine volume encyclopedia isn’t huge it will function for your purposes. Twilight saunters back to her chair and sits in it, then picks her book from the table and floats it over to her lap. Is it her lap or her shins? You’re not sure.

“Thanks, I’m glad you have one,” you say appreciatively.

“It’s no problem,” Twilight says and looks to you with a smile, “What are you researching?”

“I need to learn more about Canterlot, if I’m going to be there for an extended period of time and that period is going to involve school and socializing then I need to inform myself on the history and people,” you reply, pulling the volume for C-D from the shelf and cracking it to a random page near the beginning.

“Well, I’m from Canterlot, so don’t hesitate to ask me any questions you’d like!” she says with confident beam, her hoof resting on her chest. You will take her up on that, but later. The best information you’ll get from her is about the princess, right now you want to focus on the specific aspects of the capital city.

Flipping to the correct page, Canterlot appears at the top, quite a large article by itself, nearly 30 pages on it. Canterlot is the capital of the country of Equestria and the headquarters of the government. You read through the introduction and find many facts.

Population: Upper district – 12,089. Lower district – 84,994. Consolidated area – 7,483. Total – 104,566.

Area: Upper district – 1.2 Equestrian miles. Lower district – 8.6 Equestrian miles. Consolidated area – 34.1 Equestrian miles. Total – 43.9 Equestrian miles.

Altitude: Upper district – 997 yards above sea level. Lower district – 996 to 8 yards above sea level. Consolidated area – 8 yards above sea level.

Climate: Average temperatures – January 35°F; July 81°F.

Average annual precipitation: 5.1 inches average monthly.

Founded: Originally unknown. Became capital, 143 (992 years ago).

“Twilight, what’s the current year?”

“1143 ATE,” she responds monotonously, not looking up from her book.

Seems this encyclopedia is a little old, that’s fine though, you doubt much of this information has changed. You’re going to have to gamble on the idea that an Equestrian mile and yard are the same as the ones you know. All in all it seems like a normal city, not particularly dense even, a little rainy. Then you saw the altitude. What kind of city rises thousands of feet in the air for only a few thousand feet across? Looking at the proceeding paragraph you immediately saw why. Canterlot is partially built into the side of Canterlot mountain. Oh sure, of course, because everyone builds a city into the side of a mountain. Frankly you had no idea what to expect, this book doesn’t have any pictures, it doesn’t even have a map. How do you make an encyclopedia without a map of the city you spent 30 pages explicating? Damn lazy publisher. You read through some of the history and turn the page. The city of Canterlot and all of Equestria is governed over by Princess Celestia and her senate, both of whom reside in the capital city. Very important piece of information. This country seems to be a monarchy with a senate, the function of which isn’t entirely known to you, probably all legislative though. As you are reading through this you begin to doubt some of what Twilight told you. She’s the princess’s personal student? If she isn’t straight up lying to you, what in the world is she doing out here? She didn’t seem that shy, but you can’t imagine any other reason for her to be in this tiny hamlet. Studying was a poor reason, you could study anywhere. You read on. At the edge of Canterlot’s upper district is Canterlot Castle, which is the frequent residence of Her Majesty Princess Celestia. The princess has many residences in Canterlot, the second most known being the Imperial Palace of Equestria.She’s a princess and not a queen. That’s rather odd. You read further that the main export of Canterlot are gems and wheat, that the city’s upper district is surrounded by an enormous wall, and that the most wealthy portion of the upper district is populated by patricians. Patricians account for about 1 – 1.5% of the population of Canterlot, the exact population not entirely known but estimated to be around 1,250. All members of the senate are patricians. Though they have residences in the upper district, often times patricians live in their country estates in the consolidated area, and only travel to the upper district for business and politics.That’s fascinating, it’s like a mix of Rome and medieval Europe. That makes you wonder.

“Twilight, are you of the patrician class?” you ask making sure to add that childish ignorant tone, leaning back archways over the chair to see her upside down. Twilight looks up from her book and turns her head to you. She doesn’t seem angry, that’s good, you were kind of worried the question would be taboo.

“I was not born into a patrician family, though my family is rather wealthy and always was upper class, but I was ennobled by Princess Celestia when I was 16. So yes, I am a patrician technically, though I’ve never interacted with them in any extended sense,” she says with a cheeky smile. She picks up her book and goes right back to reading. You feel like she’s been waiting for you to interrogate her, given how she doesn’t seem to be busying herself with anything other than nosing that book, and she hasn’t had Spike send a letter to her princess. It’s amusing that patrician rank can be granted by the princess, in Rome it was entirely hereditary. You still somewhat doubt her story but who would come up with such a ridiculous lie? You did see Spike expel a ball of green gas which transformed into a letter, which Twilight read aloud promptly to prove that she really was in contact with the princess, presenting her signature on the parchment to you with a tiny arrogant smile. You’ll never know what Twilight and the princess conversed about in that big stack of letters she showed you but you are at least thankful for their efforts. You like Twilight, she’s not intolerable to be around. There’s a knock at the door.

“Why does everypony knock? This is a public library!” Twilight yells specifically at the door. Everypony? That’s a funny word, you’ll have to use that next chance you get.

“Actually, I wasn’t aware this was a public library,” you say smugly, your forelegs crossed in front of you. Twilight just rolls her eyes with a smile, you stick your tongue out in retaliation. The door opens.

Through the clear and crisp winds blown athwart the one-way embrasure steps insouciant a pretty pony, lambently yellow with light pink hair and wings, gossamer steps as she turns to shut the door, a dust of snow on her nose, her eyes strikingly green, then blue, then green again as the light dances around her face. Her hair, so musically and gracefully flowing and enchanting, would require a potamologist to explain its beauty and mysterious charm. A quintessential cynosure! You didn’t know beauty standards in this world, but now you believe you do. The beautiful pony speaks very softly.

“Hey Twilight, I was wondering if you had any books on polar fox hunting behav…” the yellow pony trails off, “I didn’t know you had company,” she says bordering on inaudible, hiding herself from you by her hair. This adorable yellow creature’s demure fear and anxiety nearly causes pulmonary halting and death for you.

“Hey Fluttershy! I think I have something like that, wait here,” Twilight says, setting her book in her chair and cantering upstairs, leaving you alone with Fluttershy. You can’t help but stare at her, unaware of how you’re torturing the verecund pony. You snap yourself out of it.

“Hi there! I’m Anonymous,” you say with forced enthusiasm, “Your name must be Fluttershy,” you add, looking away with a smile at the ceiling. Fluttershy just turns slightly, trying to bury more of herself into her hair.

“Yeah.”

“Are you one of Twilight’s friends?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like reading?”

“...yes.”

She sure is terse, but that’s okay. You’ll have to try a little harder. Really you can barely hear her. She wanted a book on polar foxes.

“Do you like animals?”

“I do.”

“I like animals too,” you say with a smile and a hoof to your chest, “I didn’t know Ponyville had polar foxes, surely we can’t be that far north, right?” you add with a small laugh. This seems to get her attention. She peeks out at you, the window light sparkling in her eyes, turning them green.

“Oh no, we’re far too south for polar foxes to venture, but I’ve gotten word from a friend on the border of the Crystal Empire that their foxes are hunting in strange areas and in ways they don’t understand. I don’t know very much about them so I decided to pay Twilight a visit,” she says, finally smiling, her hair away from her eyes. With shy people you have to find their interest, if you show ignorance they will feel obligated to teach you. In this case the ignorance is genuine, and it seems you’re both out of luck for teaching one another, but it seems to have worked anyway.

“Well then you’ve definitely come to the right place! Twilight seems to have at least one book on just about anything, I should ask her how many books she has in here,” you laugh, turning your body back to the volume.

Without much else to say to the pretty mare you turn your attention to the middle of the volume. When you first met, Twilight had forgotten to teach you what a cutie mark was. Though you had suspected that it was the image on her flank, you still didn’t know what any of that meant. You didn’t seem to have one, lifting your wing with your hoof, and for it to be the first question she asked about your supposed parents it must have some importance. The yellow pegasus walks idly, looking at the shelves. Flipping to the article it’s remarkably short, almost like a dictionary entry. A cutie mark is a small picture appearing on one’s flank to signify their special talent. Ponies are not born with the mark but have it appear when they have found their calling or unique ability, this occurs sometime around the ages of 8-13. The obtainment of a cutie mark is usually celebrated with a party called a cute-ceañera. Surprisingly brief for something so important, but perhaps it’s such commonplace knowledge they thought it not necessary to include such an elaborate article, at least in this book. If that’s so it’s no wonder Twilight was stunned by your ignorance of it. The nature of the mark is intriguing, an indicator of one’s special talent or calling. Those two things aren’t the same, so it’s still a little unclear to you what exactly it’s meant to indicate.Turning your head you peep the pegasus perusing the shelves. It seems Fluttershy’s cutie mark is a few butterflies. Twilight’s is a star with many small others surrounding it. For being the mark of one’s calling it’s rather enigmatic, though you suppose that gives one a degree of freedom in regards to interpreting its meaning. It’s very different from humans, who don’t usually get indications of their abilities except through school, or don’t have talents at all. Most people just do what they like, so maybe the cutie mark is also a strong indicator of interest. You would hate to get a cutie mark in something that you didn’t enjoy. Closing the volume and leaning back you exhale a pack of air, closing your eyes as the information settles in your mind. Twilight arrives back with a book and hands it off to Fluttershy, who signs her name in a little ledger book along with other information, and tucks the loaned book under her wing and waves for a moment thanking you and Twilight and hurries out the door. After a moment of silence between you and Twilight you decide to start interrogating her a little bit.

“Hey Twilight, what does your cutie mark mean?”

“It indicates my affinity for magic and my magical ability,” she answers proudly. Huh, you wouldn’t have guessed that by looking at it, though she did say that was the princess’s interest with her, you would have thought something like astronomy given it’s a bunch of stars. You remember seeing the doctor’s cutie mark was a kind of medical bag, so you suppose not all of them are as cryptic as a bunch of random stars.

“Do you mind telling me a little about Celestia?” you ask with a smile, resting your head on your forelegs which are perched on the back of the chair.

“Celestia is the ruler of Equestria and has been since its founding. She ruled alongside her sister Luna, but after her sister was banished for a thousand years for refusing to lower the moon, she ruled on her own and controlled both the sun and the moon. Luna came back after those thousand years, and she’s been ruler along side her since. That wasn’t very long ago. My friends and I had to assist in her reform,” Twilight thinks for a moment then continues, “Celestia is, in a word, intimidating. She’s of course benevolent and kind to her subjects, and a good ruler, but to many ponies including myself she’s a kind of transcending being, not quite a deity but often correct about things. She can be foalish and mature, and she seems to hide her intelligence well enough to keep ponies guessing. This is all intentional though, she has to keep up certain appearances to keep others behind her. Despite all of this, I’ve never met a more trustworthy and gentle pony, one who understands and comforts.”

Celestia seems to you to be someone worth knowing about. Many details of her explanation need further study but you obtained what you really wanted. Celestia is, at least according to Twilight, not going to be the pony who makes life harder for you, at least that’s what you gathered. She has a sister, Luna, which is something you note mentally for later. Twilight mentioned controlling the sun and moon. What does this mean specifically? It’s not like you could see thousands of miles into the distance, the world was not flat. Does she mean something else entirely? You are almost afraid to ask, it’s better if you don’t and just look it up yourself later.

“Thanks for the info Twilight. You’ve helped reassure me about this process, I won’t lie when I say I’m nervous about moving to a big city,” you rub the back of your head with a hoof. Maybe you should just get it over with so it’s not a problem later. “Twilight, what do you mean by controlling the sun and the moon?”

“Celestia and Luna use their magic to raise the sun and the moon each day.”

“I don’t understand, doesn’t the planet just spin around its axis to cause day and night?”

“And what do you think causes that spinning?” Twilight asks with a teacher smile.

“I would imagine it’s all just inertia from when the solar system first formed. Because there’s not much resistance from space there’s plenty of energy to keep the planet moving for billions of years, though the rotation would slow down over eons,” you reply, nervous about her response. She doesn’t seem angry.

“That’s not how it works, Anon. The planet slows down each day and needs to be restarted every morning and night.”

“How do you generate the energy to move the planet?”

“Magic.”

“Right, I should’ve figured. How does it then use up all that energy in a single day?”

“Friction.”

“With what?”

“Space.”

“There’s nothing in space, that’s why it’s called space, how could there be friction?”

“There’s not nothing in space, it’s full of air.”

“Huh?”

“Luna was banished to the moon for a thousands years, how do you think she survived?”

“Huh?!”

“There’s air everywhere Anon, including in space,” she concludes, raising a hoof to indicate her exactitude.

You’ve never felt more floored by an explanation in your life. Lives, technically. Logically this shouldn’t shock you, all else you’ve been shown has subverted your predictions, but this escapes your understanding. Air in space, if that’s so then you need to throw out all you know of physics. You should have done this a long time ago, what with all the magic and so on. You soon calm yourself and notice Twilight look towards the stove. She opens it and places a piece of wood inside. You feel you desperately need a bath. It’s not quite midday yet, so if Twilight wants to do anything later you won’t be encroaching on her time. You flex your wings a little, getting used to the idea of moving them more.

“Twilight, can you help me set up the bath?” you ask with softness and a smile, trying to emulate Fluttershy vaguely.

“No problem Anon, though it does take a while to heat up,” Twilight says making her way to the staircase.

You follow her lead and find yourself in her bathroom. You had used it yesterday but had yet to take a bath or shower in it. There’s no shower head so you suppose that baths are the only option here. You parleyed with Twilight about the function of toilets and she said that there were great engines which provided water pressure to all homes across Equestria, and that all towns in Equestria had wonderfully developed sewer systems. Through all of this there was still no hot water, you had to heat it by hand, or hoof rather, with a built in stove, then turn off the stove by taking out the box which held the coals. It sounds dangerous, but honestly unless you were stupid and left the fire in there wasn’t too much harm, and a warm bath was well worth it. The tub filled and you added some soap and a bath bomb, and let the water rise to about halfway up the claw-foot basin, then Twilight sets the fire on. After a period you felt the water was sufficiently warm, and Twilight set the box to its designated spot and you submerged yourself in warm liquid. Twilight offered to help you and you authorized her. She used the bath brush masterfully and scrubbed you clean, and shampooed your hair and rinsed it with a small metallic bowl used for specifically the purpose of pouring bath-water over as rinse. You felt the heat of the water envelope your new body, and let the bubble gods take you.

5

Nearing the hours of lunch, dampened hair becoming just dry enough to crack slightly, just past the meridian of that day, Twilight approaches you with a proposal. She mentions that Canterlot will be a place where appearance matters, and that you’ll need some kind of wardrobe and that she has a friend in Ponyville with just the skills needed to get it done before tomorrow night when you depart. She says we need to go there before the snow arrives. The sky was beginning to curdle. Twilight brings you to the kitchen where there’s a small cooking stove, for frying and baking, and places upon the surface a pan and lights the firebox with her magic. It heats promptly, and to the pan she puts butter and swirls it, holding the pan with her telekinesis, then takes from the cupboard a breadloaf and knife and cuts four slices and places two face down into the melted fats. Into the cupboard again is retrieved a block of cheese, to which she cuts again four slices and places two per slice on the bread, shuffling the pan to find the hot point of the griddle, then places the final two bread cuts atop the creation. Grilled cheese, which is really griddled cheese but no one cares enough to support that correction. The butter pops and snaps and Twilight grabs more and spreads it upon the tops of each sandwich, then uses a spatula retrieved from a drawer to flip each, the oils bubbling and cracking as the cheese begins to flow within. Now plated she cuts each corner to corner, and the rich odor of toast and butter and cheese fills your senses, and you grab the molten thing and chew the crust with an enormous bite, which is perfectly crisp, and the cheese floods your tongue and only burns you slightly.

Twilight makes for the exit with you but after testing the temperature of the outdoors she double-backs into the house, then quickly dashes up the stairs leaving you by the door, reclosed. She arrives back moments later with two scarves, both woolen and thick, a blue one which she puts on herself with one quick movement of her magic, and another gray and black one which she wraps you in, letting the excess drape over your back. Your bruises have just about healed. Outside is nearly nearly three o’clock, but it looks like six or seven by the darkness from the thick rolling cumulonimbus overhead. The lantern lighter is out, and he’s setting alight the few oil street lamps peppered about the hamlet. You both decamp and make way to Rarity’s, whom Twilight says owns a little boutique in this town and makes clothes that she says will be fit for Canterlot life. There’s rumbling in the waterpacked clouds, you and Twilight both look up at the same moment to gauge the time until the storm. The air is dry, and the snow is a layer of powder and hard ice. The streets are clear by the various hoof-traffic through the town in the day, but those who would venture now are cobbled in the buildings, servicing their hearths and stoves. You make good progress, even as the gelid wind numbs your nose and stings your cheeks, Twilight just moves closer to you. The scarf does it job, and you bury your muzzle in the thick warm weave.

Coming up on the building you notice that it’s constructed very differently from the other buildings in Ponyville. It’s round, and possibly plastered, but painted the lightest colors of white and blue and pink in floral and phylliform patterns. It separates into three sections, two floors and one watchtower or cupola, the roofing is even panels of alternating pink shades though most of it is covered by the snow, icicles sneaking downward from the hanging snow-ice compacted by the gravity which crawls the layers down the slanted platform. One lantern on the outside by the door is lit, its wick burning a smoky fuel, quickly blown away. The windows are lit, though you can’t quite see the interior. Twilight and you approach the deep blue door and she gives it a few sturdy knocks. The wind batters both of you. Walking back is going to be a pain, you know it. The door soon opens and inside is a pony, a unicorn, white in coat and violet in mane. She wears mascara, liner, and baby blue eye-shadow, her eyelashes long and faux, her mane styled in a big shiny curl.She’s pretty, you suppose. She beckons us inside, it’s quite warm.

“Twilight, what are you doing over here? The storm will be here soon, and who is this you have with you?” says the white unicorn. Her accent, it’s mid-Atlantic sounding. It’s also fake, you can tell it’s not her real accent because of the overtones of the real accent poking through. It sounds more traditionally Midwestern American, though there isn’t an America here. Oh well, if she wants to use that other accent then that’s her prerogative.

“This is Anon. She’s going to Canterlot tomorrow night and needs a few garments before then. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about this ahead of time, the decision was made suddenly by Princess Celestia herself. She won’t need that many things, anything that fits her should be fine, and I trust you to know which clothes would work for her best,” Twilight said, pleadingly. Surely Twilight isn’t expecting this pony to tailor some clothes for you before tomorrow. That would be a fortune, though Twilight honestly might be able to afford that. You just can’t imagine her spending so much money on you for this trivial thing.

“Excuse me, miss Rarity, is it? I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything extraordinary for us, anything premade would be just fine. Personally, I’m not a fan of extravagant clothing, but I understand there is some social obligation in that city for looking like you fit in. Oh, and I don’t like dresses,” you say, trying to take control of the situation. You expected Twilight to try and put you in a dress far earlier than this, but you weren’t having it, not then and not now. You’ll probably need one, and only one, but not to wear casually. Rarity looks at you for a moment with a blank expression on her face, then kneels down and smashes your cheeks with her hooves.

“Oh, aren’t you the cutest little thing! You have no need to worry Anon, the cost is on me. Of course, whatever you’d like on display is fine, but if there’s anything you wish to be made then it shall!” Rarity says eagerly. Pushing Rarity slightly with your free foreleg she releases you from her clutches. You give a nod and tilted brow to indicate your discomfort with being moshed so much and begin to peruse the store while Twilight and Rarity watch on with interest.

“I like white dress shirts, though perhaps you don’t have those for a pony my size,” you say, still glancing at the various male and female style garments adorning mannequins. Most of the stuff here is designer esque, not something you’d find yourself dead wearing.

“It’s no problem at all, darling. I have some things in storage, but I would insist on fitting them for you,” says Rarity. You aren’t sure what will and won’t be most important, you really have no knowledge in fashion whatsoever, so you’ll trust her judgment. Rarity walks into a room opposite the entrance and comes out moments later with a stack of folded shirts, all small in size, perhaps seven or eight of them. Given it’s still winter you’ll want a jacket, in fact you’ve wanted a jacket since you’ve been here but everyone else seem to find their coats sufficient for warming themselves, not you. It still gets rather cold, especially with the wind.

“I’ll also need a jacket, I get very cold even with my coat, and with the windchills it’s even worse,” you say, looking at the stack of white linens.

“That’s perfectly reasonable, one jacket is no problem. Now come here, I need to measure you to fit these,” Rarity says, floating over a bright yellow tailor’s tape, pulling it taught in her magical grasp. Walking over you resign yourself to her desires, and she floats a pencil and notepad over as well and jots down numbers she reads off the measure for your forelegs, back legs, torso, even your head. She taps your wing to get your attention and nods to indicate something. You think she wants you to stretch your wings to get a measurement.

“Ah, okay. Let me try,” you say, focusing on a spot on the floor. Perception of your wings is something you’ve been working on, but you haven’t stretched them out entirely yet. Your back muscles flex in response to your searching for the alien appendages. Soon you find them, and pour in a bit of energy. Slowly, with much effort on your part, the wings separate from your side and span outward and the feathers fan out, and you feel the whole process is a lot like a morning stretch under a fat lady. Rarity uses her tape to measure the wingspan, width, and then the circumference of the base, quickly noting these down on her pad. Hopefully you’ll get to the point where you can actually fly with these things, but for now they are just an idle preoccupation, something you need to get used to having and using.

“Anon, has anyone mentioned you have enormous wings?” Rarity asks, making mental calculations in her notepad. Do you? You haven’t seen any other fillies, so you aren’t sure if your wings are large for your age. Compared to Fluttershy, they didn’t seem all that out of proportion. Perhaps wings don’t get larger on pegasi until they’re older.

“No one has mentioned that to me. I don’t think they’re all that big, or are they?” you ask with slight worry. Hopefully you don’t have some random condition that prevents you from flying.

“Actually, I was meaning to talk to you about that. Your wings seem almost fully developed in contrast to the rest of your development, I’d say they’re about 6 years ahead of the rest of your body,” Twilight says, squinting her eyes at you, eyeing the estimation she just gave.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not particularly, though I’m not entirely sure, I’ve never seen this large of a difference before. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had one the largest wingspans in Equestria for your age group. It’s no wonder you have trouble moving them, I’ve noticed your efforts in that lately,” Twilight says with a soft smile on her face. Your muscle development in that area must be the lowest it could possibly be, and with the added large size of your wings it seem like you won’t be flying for a bit. You’ll have to train that area seriously if you want to take to the skies any sooner. There’s research to be done on that.

“And don’t worry darling, I can tailor around your large size,” Rarity says confidently. For some reason that doesn’t sound right to you. You walk to the men’s coats section of the store on the far right. You do have an idea for how you want your jacket to be designed, but you wanted to find something over here that was close looking so you didn’t have any misunderstandings. What you wanted was a kind of pea coat, something wool that wouldn’t look too gaudy, something dark gray, blue lining, shiny buttons. Nothing extravagant. You find something close to that, however several sizes too large, and throw it over your back and carry it to Rarity. For the cloth you find something with the wool texture you like and drop it multiple times, to which Twilight magics it over to the unicorn tailor. You’ve noticed how little she’s interfering with anything you’ve said or done here, maybe that’s intentional.

“These two, this color wool with this texture, single-breasted style pea coat, silver-colored buttons, with three sleeve buttons. No vent, that would just defeat the purpose. Lots of pockets, two breast pockets, two front pockets, and two slit pockets on the same area of the front pockets, this one here doesn’t have those but I’m sure you know what I mean, it doesn’t matter that they overlap, I dislike high up pockets. I’m not sure how large I want the lapels to be, maybe two inches, what do you think?” you ask, wanting her opinion on the coat you’ll probably be wearing every day until it warms up. To you it was very important, but for some reason Rarity had this expression on her face you couldn’t place. Her expression changed again, and she seemed to be thinking about the idea you’ve put together, and grabbed her notepad and a pencil and scribbled down your thoughts, and proceeded to sketch the garment right in front of you, blazingly fast. You were shocked, in moments the drafting was done, and she presented it to you.

“We can go for somewhere between this one and the other for the lapels, if you’d like, and I happen to have some silver buttons come in today so that will be no issue,” she says with a determined smile. You eye the sketch and it seems pretty much perfect, you’ve never seen someone that quick to understand your usually nebulous ideas. You suppose she’s well practiced in making sense of the nonsensical things her customers say.

“Anon, this is fine and all, but I think you’re going to need more formal wear than this. A dress would be best,” Twilight says.

“I know next to nothing about dresses honestly, and I would be well out of my depth to suggest anything tasteful or preferential. Rarity, I entrust all decisions about the dress to you, just don’t make it poofy,” you say with a feigned threatening look. Rarity giggles at this and goes to her pad to jot ideas. You look to Twilight, who seems to have been thinking most of the time you’ve been here. Having to ask Celestia about why you’ve been directed to her, yeah right. You know she had to tell something to her for her to have that kind of reaction, to want to take you in, but you don’t know what that could possibly be. You refuse to accept whimsy. Your wings would be a ridiculous answer, they are just abnormally large, you can’t even move them well. You hate when people keep things from you, especially when they are directly related to your personal situation. You could rebel but overtly doing so would cause problems. Twilight keeping this from you is minus five points to her. Think about the situation from the far outreaches. The only reason she wouldn’t tell you this information is if it would compromise the situation, she’s not telling you the whole story because she knows if you knew, you would refuse to go. You haven’t refused anything of her so far, so why would she think that? It must be such that regardless of your stance, you’d refuse. You imagine it must pertain to a universal negative outcome in that case. Pain, sadness, loneliness, and so on, to the extent that anyone would refuse. Perhaps you are overthinking that, but it’s certainly possible. Which means she’s using you to gain favor with her princess since she would be compromising you for a favor, which sounds plausible but seems contradictory to the behavioral information you have so far. She’s been nothing but caring and genial, but there’s too much inferential evidence that something is definitely going on. That, or the princess is a ditz. Twilight seems to catch you staring and gives you an awkward look.

“You okay, Anon?”

“Just what did you tell your princess about me to make her interested?” you ask irritated. Rarity has since gone to the other room to work.

“I can’t tell you Anon, those letters are confidential documents, princess’s orders.”

“Wrong. You were able to tell me quite a few details from the letters and even read one to me. I’ll ask again, what did you say?” You say with more anger. Twilight looks both to not take you seriously and to do so at the same time. Your stature is impossible to be intimidating, which is a bit of a shame, actually it’s mildly frustrating. Twilight sighs and looks you over, a little fed-up look on her face.

“Anon, we have looked far and wide, me and the princess, and we can’t figure out where you came from. Not where you were born, not who your parents are, not any place you would’ve stayed at in the past, no records that fit your description, no schools that know of you at all. When you were passed out in the hospital, you murmured things in your sleep, you did so the first night you were here as well. Things I’ve never heard a filly your age say, stories I didn’t recognize, knowledge I didn’t know of until you whispered it in your slumber. You speak in a way most fillies don’t. Not even Princess Luna could enter your sleeping mind. All of this the princesses know, they want you to be there for whatever purpose, and that’s maybe the reason, I never really know what Celestia plans until long after it’s already finished. Satisfied?!” Twilight says, looking a bit tired. You feel a little bad for getting upset, but it did get what you wanted, so that ought to even it out. Princess Luna can enter dreams, but not yours for some reason. That’s weird, you don’t remember any of the dreams you’ve had since you’ve gotten here. Dreams occur during REM sleep, when the eyes are moving rapidly under the closed lids, and if you don’t wake up during REM sleep you don’t remember any dreams. That doesn’t preclude dreaming though, what with all the sleep talking you did, so there’s still no explanation for that. Rarity comes walking back into the front room after hearing Twilight’s frustrated voice.

“Are you okay dear?” Rarity asks Twilight.

“I’m fine, we’ll be going now, I trust you to put everything together by 10PM tomorrow, that’s when she leaves,” Twilight says, calmed down and making way for the door, “Let’s go, Anon.” You depart, Rarity waves goodbye.

Another silent walk home, this time caused by your aggressiveness, you should have been lighter and not as emotional. Nothing to be done about it now. Twilight places a piece of wood from the wood-pile into the stove. It’s pretty dark now, and the snow is beating down on the windows, and the howl is like the night you arrived.

“Hey Twilight, what exactly did I say in my sleep?” you ask embarrassed.

“I don’t recall everything you said, they were a smattering of incoherent sentences with potty humor in between” she says with a giggle.

“Uh, is this what the princess was interested in?” you ask confused.

“No, at least I don’t think so, it’s just what I remember. She might have been interested in some of the novel phrases. I’ve never heard of a ‘leh-beg’ integral. Also Anon, I don’t know why you would call someone a bundle of sticks but I can only assume it’s pejorative, and you really shouldn’t say the F-word,” Twilight says, she looks at you disappointed. You wiped your nose and snuffled, thinking it would wipe away the embarrassment. Most of your effort to seem well-mannered has gone with the wind, but these couple of days have given the worst study to Twilight, for your efforts in this respect have been thoroughly wasted.

“Sorry, I can’t really control what I say in my dreams, must have been upset,” you laugh awkwardly. Twilight uses her magic to set fire to the lamps and candles around the room.

You choose to retire early for the night, it can’t be later than seven but you feel rather tired. Twilight stays up to write, and brings her supplies with her dragon downstairs as to not disturb your rest. Later that night, she climbs into bed with you, which does stir you awake but you were quickly back to sleep, more white-noise gales act as lullabies.

6

You wake early, before Twilight this time, and make your way downstairs. It’s cold, you look around for a piece of kindle and find some cotton in a jar next to the wood. You open the stove and look at the coals fallen into the trap, some which have embers and glow in the blue morning air. You set the cotton to it and it catches and you grab a wood piece with your free hoof after setting the burning cotton on the ledge of the stove entrance and light the thin stick. It burns and you add a bit more, then a couple of quarter-logs, close the stove hatch and leave the vent open. It begins to warm the immediate area, you’re glad you didn’t burn yourself. Given your behavior yesterday you ought to be repentant and give back to the pony who saved you. Making your way to the kitchen with a burning stick you light the lamps and candles, the morning is not quite bright enough. With the burning stick you set the cooking stove and look in the cupboards for a powder. Given the height of the things you have to stand on the counter, which you wriggled up without much issue with a chair, and commenced to check boxes. No. Not this. Not that one. No. Ah, this maybe. You lick your hoof and dip it into the powder and taste it. It’s what you are looking for, flour. You find milk, very cold in its glass container, sugar, baking soda, and even baking powder. You find eggs and butter also in glass. A lot of these glass containers raise your anxiety for fear of breaking any of them. From another lower cupboard you find a bowl and prepare the batter, and fetch a spatula from the drawer. You fetch two clean plates from the higher cupboard, and with the utmost care give your best effort not to drop them, which you don’t. The skillet goes on the burning stove. With the batter mixed you are ready to prepare breakfast. After a butter lather you pour the first cake, which takes a bit of effort since you needed to use a chair to reach the cooktop, but your balance is basically fully formed at this point. You forgot syrup. You get down from the chair and up another to look through the cupboards. You find it quick enough, a fat glass bottle of dark amber viscosity. You decide to make four pancakes each for yourself and Twilight, and let the fire burn out. You plate them with syrup and butter pat, they are steaming and fluffy, and not burnt thankfully. You are quite proud of this basic culinary achievement. You set the silverware by each plate. Making your way upstairs Twilight turns in her sleep, the sun peaking over the horizon. You give her a light tap.

“Hey Twilight,” you whisper, “I made breakfast.”

Twilight turns and grumbles something unintelligible, then flutters her eyes open.

“Huh?”

“I made breakfast, it’s hot and ready in the kitchen,” you say with a proud smile.

“Oh, alright Anon, I’ll be down in a second then,” Twilight says, not quite fully conscious. Twilight seems to take a few moments to process the sentence you said fully, and once she does she springs out of bed frantically, you are at the loft stairs when she passes you, she looks bug eyed and nervous, her teeth a grimace. You finally arrive at the foot of the main staircase and see Twilight with a perplexed look on her face.

“You okay Twilight?” you ask, somewhat concerned. Twilight thinks on this for a moment, shakes her head of sleep and whatever was bothering her.

“Yeah, I’m okay Anon. It’s just that, I personally know a few fillies who’ve tried cooking before, it wasn’t pretty, so I was reacting reflexively to that,” she answers, holding a hoof to her forehead.

“Well, don’t want them getting cold,” you say with a bright beam.

You partake of the puffy cakes, oozing with sugary liquid, the lovely grease of the butter, and Twilight compliments your efforts, and you leave forthright to the first floor, taking a glass of water with you. You think this morning you ought to do more reading. Twilight arrives later on with Spike. She proceeds to scribble on a single ring collection of parchment while Spike waits patiently, then grabbing a book from the shelf to occupy himself. You read for maybe two or three hours, just the encyclopedia, and you see the sun come through the window and heat a part of the table you’re sitting at. Bored of this and with Twilight still writing, you look to the rack for your scarf. Well, it’s technically Twilight’s, but you are probably going to steal it, and by that you mean ask for it nicely. You walk to the rack.

“I’m going for a walk,” you say. Twilight looks up from her writing as you wrap the scarf around you. It’s sunny out again, and from the heat shining through the window you can tell it’s warmer today. You haven’t had the chance to really be alone since you’ve gotten here. You still think Twilight is trying to shelter you, this will show how much she wants to do that.

“Just be careful and don’t run into the Everfree forest. You leave at 10PM, so you can’t be out for later than that. Oh!” Twilight seems to realize something and goes upstairs. It doesn’t seem like she’s holding you down here, she didn’t seem to care at all if you wanted to wander independently. That’s nice, you suppose your theory was wrong, or she had a change of heart. Who knows? Twilight comes back downstairs holding a pouch, a wallet, small and brown linen—or some kind of twine weave—with a string to suture the rim which extends into a large loop. Twilight puts the wallet around your neck, it’s loose and rests just under your collar bone. It’s pretty heavy, you hold it with your left hoof and peer inside. It’s full of gold.

“Thanks Twilight, but this looks like a lot of money, I don’t really need all of this,” you say with an awkward laugh, Twilight seems to laugh in earnest at this.

“It’s not that much Anon, there’s thirty bits in it, I want you pick up some tomatoes, you can have the other twenty,” Twilight tells you, she ruffles you hair. Shaking your hair back into position you exit the house, Twilight waves.

The smell of wet stone and dry bark fills your nostrils, and the light bounces off the snow and shrinks your pupils, and you squint in mild agony at the ocular adjustment. In the distance you hear the river flowing, and there are bird chattering, robin and blue jay and wren, and you can hear a faint humming far off which might be talking, ponies in town going about their business. The clinking latch of a door, the sweeping rub of an opening window. The sky is cloudless again, and you turn your head to the sun to bake your face. It must be well over freezing, it feels wonderful.

You don’t really have a plan for today but seeing that it’s your last day in Ponyville you want to hit a few bases. You haven’t really talked to anyone in town, and though you are a child in this world you would doubt that ponies would actively avoid you for that reason. The library is nearing the outer sides of the town, so you decide to walk opposite it towards what you are guessing is the center. Some of the walkway is cobbled, some is mere dirt or gravel. Various houses are lined with hedge bush and thuja, and the snow is dripping on the leaves and snaking its way to the base, soaking into the earth to be used by the plant. You see ponies of all sort, blue, yellow, purple, even red, all uniquely hued and styled, their manes curly and straight, short and long, there is no shortage of variety. Your nearly black hair is strangely unique in that respect, having yet seen a single pony with it, and green seems to be uncommon as well, at least in this town. You decide to hum a tune, and your high voice facilitates hitting notes which you were unable to in your past life. You weren’t the best singer but you did make an effort to train yourself to be at least tolerable at karaoke. Around you are earth ponies, unicorns, and pegasi. Some of the pegasi hover by windows to chat up neighbors, and yonder there’s a family of unicorns, and a unicorn filly plays with toys while she walks, the shapes and figures suspended before her, and an apple falls from a stand and rolls into the road which the vendor scrambles to pick up. You were on the edge of this town market, there are booths lining the dirt path, with awnings and patterns decorating the little stores.

You decide you need directions and turn to the booth with the apples to ask for help. Manning the store—mare-ing?—is an orange pony with blonde hair, and she wears an old notched cowboy hat and bands the base of her mane. She looks at you with a smile, her eyes as green as your own, her cheeks puffed in grinning making her little white freckles by her eyes accentuate. You didn’t know ponies could have freckles, but those are definitely freckles.

“Howdy there little one, anything I can help you with?” the orange mare speaks to you. Her accent is rural, not southern but western. She has a plethora of apple products, some pastries and big wooden tubs of apples. You know of only a few hardy apples, not quite hekistotherms, and it’s late winter as far as you can tell. Gala and maybe McIntosh. The mare watches you eye over the apples at her stand. You succuss your head to snap yourself out of the apple induced trance. You gaze up at the mare. You can tell she’s looking at your back, or your wings in that case.

“Yes! I need some directions to where I can buy some tomatoes. Also, how much for an apple?” you ask, trying to not be rude by not purchasing anything.

“The tomato stand is on the far end of the market, big sign, you can’t miss it, and an apple is one bit,” she says with a wink. You grab the wallet and open the constriction with a tug, and pull out one of the gold picayunes. There’s an image of an alicorn on it, probably Celestia, bijugate symbolism adorning her. You hand the specie over to the mare and she hands you back a gala. You depart.

Walking through the rest of the market there’s all kinds of odds and ends, from flowers to quills to jams and honey to books. You wonder how they grow the flowers. You don’t have to go back for a while, so you look for a bench and rest. You ponywatch, not sure of all the behaviors of these equines. Pegasi fly through, fillies and colts bug their parents, unicorns levitate huge quantities of product. A parcel of mares at a flower stand, a couplet osculate, a stallion dressed in twill fetches his blown hat. You spot a pegasus foal, a colt, he’s gray and has a kind of slicked black hair. His wings, they are indeed smaller than yours, though he seems around a year or two your junior, regardless it’s apparent how large your flappers are. You see more pegasus young, more information about wing size, and they buzz their little wings and zigzag in a game of aerial tag. Nothing about that makes sense physically, though you did read that pegasi have magic which allows them to fly despite their wings’ evident flaws in aviation. You wonder if your mutation is merely physical or has other magical effects. You wiggle them, you can almost fan them to full span, your proprioception of them is becoming better. You give them a few good flexes and try to turn them like shoulders in a socket, but it’s not really working out. Just try up and down, controlled slow flaps. It takes quite a bit of effort but they do go up and down, very slowly. It feels like trying to lift twenty pounds with your pinkie finger. This is the only way you’ll get stronger, it’s like any other reps in an exercise. You decide to stop at fifteen, and look up to your immediate area. There are ponies staring at you. Expressionless, brow cocked. Feeling mightily embarrassed about this you leave immediately, taking your apple with you, having a bite as you trot away looking downward, tucking it into your scarf, the ponies still gazing. Why did you think that was appropriate to do in public? You don’t think, that’s the problem, think more.

After that self flagellating you arrive at the tomatoes, your apple half eaten, it’s quite good. Wanting to get the out of the public eye as soon as possible you place ten bits on the counter and wait, and the pony at the stand grabs a paper bag and places some tomatoes in it, you weren’t paying attention to how many. You just want to get home. She hands you the bag which you loop on your neck, the little twisted paper handles digging into your nape, and you nearly canter off.

Just about when you are free of the fester of ponies you hear a sound, like a voice. It nears you and you cock your head. You hear wind as well. Before you know it, it’s upon you, like a wayward truck barreling down a highway.

“Hey kid! What’s your name?” says a voice from above. It’s raspy and boyish, but chiefly female. You look around upward for the source and you find a pegasus mare hovering, she has a grin on her face, and her eyes are amethyst. Coat cyan, mane spectral. She literally has a six band Newton spectrum as her mane color, a classic rainbow. She lands next to you and you turn to her.

“Uh, I’m Anon, what’s it to ya?” you ask awkwardly. She just beams at you.

“You have some huge wings there kid, I saw you showing them off in the market.”

“I wasn’t showing them off, I was… exercising, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that my wings are hard to move, or I have a hard time moving them, so I need to develop the muscle to move them.”

“Can you fly?”

“I don’t know.”

This seems to flag the rainbow mare, who seemed rather eager before. You turn to start walking away but the pegasus mare begins to follow you.

“Look, it’s very nice to meet you miss…”

“Rainbow Dash,” she says proudly.

“Right, but I need to get these tomatoes back home. My… uh, guardian is waiting for me,” you say with a forced pleading smile.

“Your ‘guardian’?”

“Yes.”

“And who is that?” she says, now hovering with her forelegs crossed. What business is it of yours fuckwit? You’re letting yourself become irritated, calm down. It’s an innocuous question.

“I’m staying at the library with Twilight Sparkle,” you say, Rainbow Dash perks up at this.

“You’re staying with Twilight? I know her, she’s a good friend of mine, do you mind if I tag along?” she asks, landing once again and trotting up next to you.

“I suppose, but please give me some personal space,” you protest. She sidesteps twice and you proceed on to Twilight’s.

Through the door of the library, Rainbow Dash flies and lands at the entrance-way, shaking her wings and folding them. You’re not quite there, you chose to walk, enjoying the clear air. You can hear them in there, just barely.

“Hey Rainbow, what brings you here today?”

“Twilight! You adopted a filly and didn’t tell us?!”

Twilight groans at this. You enter the house.

“Twilight, I got the tomatoes, where do you want them?”

“On the table in the kitchen is fine. And no I didn’t adopt her, what did she tell you?” she asks, looking you over as you ascend the stairs.

“She said that you were her ‘guardian’.”

“Well yes, I technically am at the moment, but the situation is going to be handled by the princess. She’s leaving today, so I won’t be her guardian after that,” says Twilight, the conversation is pretty muffled in the kitchen, you suppose wood is decent soundproofing when it’s this thick. You descend back to the first floor.

“The princess? What would she want with a random pegasus?” says Rainbow Dash. Ouch, she’s right though.

“I don’t know, the princess said she was planning something, she didn’t say what it was.”

“You didn’t think to ask?” Rainbow Dash says, looking rather annoyed and disappointed.

“I did ask but she said, ‘It wouldn’t be a plan if you knew, Twilight.’ What am I supposed to do with that?” She says, putting on a different voice for Celestia. It seems Twilight is as annoyed about the lack of informational freedom with her princess as you are. That’s amusing, and you chuckled a little. Twilight and Rainbow look over to this.

“See, now you know how I felt when you didn’t give me an explanation. I still don’t really know what’s going to happen to me there, but since Twilight trusts her teacher I’m going along with it. I suppose since we are all in the dark, it makes little sense to withhold our thoughts on the matter. I don’t really have much of a choice in going, and you seem to not have much of a choice in what you’re doing here. We can be bullied by your princess together!” you say with an eager face. Twilight seems surprised.

“I do have a choice in being here, all my friends are here.”

“Ah, but why exactly did you choose to leave the promising capital of Canterlot, personal student of the princess herself, and live in this podunk town?” you ask with a smug look. Twilight frowns and darts her eyes.

“Uh…”

“HAH! I fucking knew it!” you give a rough horselaugh, “Celestia told you to come here, and it’s been her scheme. You’re nothing like the ponies in this town. And what exactly would happen to you if you chose to leave this place by your own free will?”

“Anon, language, please!” Twilight sighs and looks to Rainbow Dash, “You see she’s very incisive.”

“Twilight may have come here by the order of the princess but that doesn’t mean she has to stay, she likes it here.”

“Uh huh, I’m sure that’s exactly what the princess intended. Oh jeez, I can’t believe I’m being sucked up into a whirlwind with that pony, if I’m not careful she’ll use me all the same, in fact it’s probably already done,” you say, mildly sarcastic, smirking.

“Hey! That’s the princess you’re talking about!” says Rainbow accusingly. The tone surprises you. You’re getting too worked up, need to cool your jets. Clear your head.

Celestia seems to like pushing ponies around, however beneficial or indirect. It’s not merely whimsy. There’s something utterly disgusting about being lead down a one-way path. I’m sure Twilight would call it destiny, you think it more coercion. You won’t run away, not unless it becomes pertinent, but you intend to play this game of sumo with the princess, however futile. It’s not fair at all, she has a head start and is cloaked in immense power, but life is not without trying. The princess should suspect nothing, in fact she could be gathering orphan foals from all over. You don’t get information until you’re there, so there’s little to predict. You sigh, there’s so little to be done. You’re realizing how little power you have in this world.

“You’re right Rainbow, sorry.”

“I understand that you are frustrated with this being foisted upon you, but the princess really is a kind pony, and she would never do anything to harm you,” Twilight says, trying to be encouraging. You said this before Twilight. You try to pinch the bridge of your nose, which actually works with your magical grip.

“You’re missing the point, I don’t have a choice. Going with the princess is the only logical decision one can make when weighing the options, and I’m not going to choose to live in an orphanage. If I decided to do that, I could just as easily be redirected to her. Running away isn’t an option, I don’t have the skills or ability to survive alone. It would be easier if I didn’t have a choice of going with her, but since I have the choice my options are immediately quashed. It’s not that I don’t want to go, I honestly do, but I find the circumstances rather—how do you say?—icky.”

“Anon, if you really want me to, I can just write to the princess that you don’t want to go.”

“No, don’t do that!”

“Why?” she asks, you think for a moment.

“Listen, I know I might be misreading all of this, but if the princess is everything I’ve read then she’s the kind of pony who will technically agree with you, then do something oblique to that which has the identical effect. And I really do want to go, but even if you did she would just find a different method.”

“Princess Celestia wouldn’t do that!” says Rainbow Dash.

“No, Rainbow, I know what Anon means. Honestly I’ve never seen a foal this distrustful of the princess, most fillies love her. Anon, I know that you think Celestia is not giving you an option, but I’ve known her for nearly a decade personally. I’ve spent more time with her than almost anypony else other than her few aides, and I’m absolutely certain that the princess just wants to help you. Oh! I have an idea!” Twilight realizes. She trots upstairs and you hear a shuffling and some banging, like she’s dumped out a huge box of stuff. You and Rainbow look at each other quizzically. She comes down holding a cylindrical pipe with a pump, like a cooking plunger but etched with a metal casing. At the base there’s no spigot, it just ends abruptly with a wide opening. She places it on the table.

“What’s this?” you ask flatly.

“Well, technically it’s a flint and steel, but this is enchanted so the fire it produces can send letters! Hopefully this will help set aside your worries, we can still talk to each other.”

“How do you expect me to receive the letters without a dragon?”

“It will take longer, but the letter will float there by itself. And try not to lose it, it was very hard to enchant.”

“I will give my utmost effort,” you say with a little bow. Twilight giggles, Rainbow rolls her eyes.

The spectral mare seems to be getting impatient and bugs Twilight, tapping her shoulder while hovering overhead.

“Twilight, can I take her outside to help her train her wings?” says the rainbow pony.

“I don’t know why you’re asking me, it’s up to Anon to decide what she was wants to do.” Rainbow Dash looks to you and grins hard.

“Sure,” you say monotonously.

“Alright!” yells Rainbow Dash, doing a full aerial loop in the library foyer. You make for the door.

Outside it’s solar noon, least by your estimation. Rainbow Dash waves a hoof and you follow her, she leads past the little stone bridge over the creek to a secluded area on the crest of a hill where you can see part of the town from above. The snow isn’t deep, only a little slushy. The top of the hill is partly melted, much dull grass bearing through the thin crystals. Rainbow Dash stops over by a tree. The wet grass and dirt squelches under your hooves. She turns around and faces you.

“Okay kid, what can you do with your wings right now?” she asks, pointing a hoof at you.

“I can move them somewhat, but trying to flap them is like trying to lift a cart.”

“Well, let me see you try.”

You turn your neck and it pops and you ruffle your wings on your back in preparation. Closing your eyes and focusing on the back you force all your effort into lifting the jagged things. They rise painfully, slowly, and you peer open your left eye. Rainbow Dash is looking with a neutral expression, which turns concerned, then confused. She cocks an eyebrow in thought. You lower the wings and go back up, still somewhat tired from earlier, the speed at which you can turn them up and down became sluggish. You are unable to do more, and they fall to your sides and you nearly fall into the mud. You catch yourself and stand up fully and look to Rainbow Dash.

“Anon, I don’t think you’re doing it right,” Rainbow says frowning. You catch your breath.

“Oh really? How do you do it right then?” You ask, sucking air into your tiny lungs. Rainbow thinks and shuffles her foreleg idly.

“Well, wings don’t really move with muscles, they are too small. They move with magic mostly, which is what allows pegasi to fly.”

“Then how do I get it working?” you ask perking up from your breathlessness.

“I’m not entirely sure, but you can try focusing on your wings, maybe try directing your attention there without moving them,” Rainbow Dash closes her eyes and moves her wings, then thinks momentarily, “Yeah, it’s something like that. I just feel the wings move when I focus attention there, like a warm feeling, but I barely use any muscle at all.”

Well that’s not useful, you’ve already been focusing on your wings, what difference would it make to do so now? You feel this is futile but you follow her instructions. You close your eyes and focus within. The legs, fore and back, foreign stances to your bipedal lineage, the cool water pricks your hoof, the blood flows through it and up the appendage again, and your tail flicks some moisture away. The meaty chest, your stomach quietly digests, your shoulders shift with each breath, the heart pumps the soul liquid which powers your animate frame, the abdominal space sequesters your will. Move it up. The back, flexing and turning, acts as the tensile force pushing against the otherwise crumpled mass of meat, denizen to each dirty plank or throne. Then you feel them, the feathered things. Their flesh not much more than crude wrapping and fluff, the bones flushed and set parallel together, otherwise cross-ways, feathers orthogonal and acicular. Wings are merely a third set of legs, anatomically. Walk then. Don’t move them, just walk. The blood flows through them and back to their fleshy home, then pumped out again. Just walk. The lungs absorb the trickling vapor from sagging leaves evaporating in the primrose sun. Just walk. The bones shift and trundle into new positions. You feel your mind become light, and you open your eyes. There’s an immense heat coming from your wings, like you’ve been roasting them back to the stove. It’s getting too hot. It’s getting painful. You yell.

“Ah, it’s hot! What the fuck?!” you call out. Immediately you begin to flap your wings in a desperate attempt to cool them, they weigh almost nothing, and they move at a rate you hadn’t yet been capable. To your surprise you actually rise into the air, only a few feet, then fall back down to the earth after realizing what you’ve done. You hit the ground torso first and it knocks the wind out of you. You and your scarf are now dirty with mud. But you did it, you really flew, that’s really all it took? Rainbow Dash trots over and checks you, then hovers, crazed smile on her face.

“That… was… awesome!” she shouts, triple rolling around your dirty crumpled body. You get up and dust some of the mud clumps off. Looking back at your wings you see a bit of mudwater resting atop in tiny beads. With no effort you swat it all away with a couple quick flaps, it’s like nothing. Why was it so hard to move them before? Is it really just magic? You feel that same warmth as before in the flesh near the base, it’s not as hot this time, just warm. Rainbow Dash lands next to you and puts a foreleg around your neck and shoulders. You look up at her.

“I agree with you, but I still have a ways to go before I can do those loops you seem to like,” you say with a satisfied laugh. You feel elated, and who wouldn’t after learning to fly? You move away from Rainbow and step to the edge of the crest adjacent to the forest in the distance and fan out your wings, the huge things, and they catch the breeze like racing parachutes and pull you back, though not enough to move you. You can see a huge stretch of area from here. Ponyville and its surrounding land looks to be grassy peneplain with some shallow washland along the river, or maybe it’s glacial plain, and there’s speckled forests. The Everfree sits behind you. Rainbow joins you and stretches hers as well, the breeze blowing her mane back. Her athletic figure is truly visible to you now, and you a little ectomorph.

“Wanna race?”

“I can barely get off the ground, and you expect me to be able to race?”

“Oh come on, don’t think about it, just fly!” Rainbow Dash says, and shoots off the crest at an acceleration you didn’t think possible nor survivable. Right, don’t think about it, but thinking is all you’re good at. Then don’t think about flying, think about something else, think about walking.

You step to the edge and give your wings a few good pumps, then a little faster, then a little faster, and you begin to rise. You rise a little faster, then a little faster. Too fast! You are about 50 feet in the air at this point, your legs dangle and try to reach desperately for imaginary ground, and you just keep flapping. Remember, don’t think about it, just walk. You rest your legs and adjust your rate of flapping, and you move forward, tilting your body. It’s just as terrifying as the first time you rode without training wheels on your bicycle, this level of traumatic fear not reached since elementary school. Your heart pounds wildly as you try to keep balance in the air. Rainbow Dash zips by you and loops in a huge circle and stops in front you trying to hover. Your eyes are bugged out, and you can feel your heart pump in your neck. You take a fifteen second count, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three, and so on. Maybe 150 BPM.

“Not bad kid, soon you’ll be zipping around like me, and relax Anon, your wings aren’t going anywhere.”

“Y-yeah, I know, I’m just trying to feel the balance out.”

“We can go back if you want.”

“Uh, yeah sure, let’s do that,” you say hoarsely. Rainbow Dash flies out, slowly so you can keep up, and you follow her, trying your best to gain intuition on speed and flap rate, as well as roll, yaw, and pitch. You both spot Twilight’s tree and make a b-line for it. It takes little time to arrive back, far faster than walking out to the hill even at that careful flying speed. Landing wasn’t horrible, and you didn’t fall this time, just slowed the fluttering until you were on the ground. You and Rainbow Dash enter the library, the foyer empty.

“Twilight?” you yell. Twilight comes trotting down the stairs a moment later. Looking you and Rainbow Dash over her smile turns to an annoyed frown.

“She got a little dirty,” says Rainbow.

“A little?”

“I did, but look at this!” you say, and proceed to hover in an unstable wobble near the door, then land back on the ground with little more than a tentative half-trip, little drips of dirt falling from your fell. You smile proudly and Twilight’s mood seems to get better.

“I’ve made food but you need to get in the bath first. Rainbow, thank you for being with Anon today.”

“No problem Twi, I’ll see you later kid,” says Rainbow Dash, opening the door and blasting off into the blue yonder.

“Come on, let’s get the bath ready.”

That evening Twilight went with you to Rarity’s to pick up the clothes she had ordered. It was twilight, the sun just below the horizon, and you could see the moon was crescent and waxing. The air was still and no gusts fell upon you. Rarity presented you 4 bags, white paper with a little monogram, and listed off the things she decided to include. There was your coat, your shirts, but also a few scarves, a cossack, a balaclava, a few of some buttonable collars detached from various types of collared garments, and a dress. She even included a kind of cape, one to block the wind. The dress, you saw, was green like your coat, with silk main fabric at the torso and gossamer green tinted silk for the fabric lining the skirt of the dress. You thought it looked rather nice, and not too extravagant. She said that this would be fine for the winter months but when spring rolled around you should purchase new clothes. You looked to Rarity and smiled and thanked her, and you and Twilight were about to depart when there was a noise from the back of the room, not Rarity’s voice but someone else.

“Rarity! Applebloom and Scootaloo won tickets to the Ponyville orchestra and I can’t go because they don’t have a third ticket!” squeaks the voice. You turn around and there, standing petulant and on the verge of tears, was a filly who looked much like Rarity, but her hair was like a cloud of pink and purple and curled at the ends into little Ionic capitals, green eyed. Is this her daughter or something? No, daughters usually don’t call their parents by their names. If it’s her sister, she sounds a lot like how Rarity’s natural accent should sound.

“Oh, I’m sorry Sweetie, when is the concert?” Rarity says, treading lightly.

“It’s at eight! And all the tickets for it are sold out!” the little unicorn cries out, tears welling in her eyes. Kids crying is rather heartbreaking, at least for you. They feel things with such ferocity that adults usually forget, and therefore find bothersome. The tears begin rolling down her cheeks, little rivers of wetness on her pearl fur. You can’t bear it, you walk over to the white unicorn, who now has her head buried in her hooves, sitting on her haunches defeated, and place a foreleg around her shoulders. She’s gritting her teeth under there, trying not to bawl.

“Are you okay? If you can’t go to the concert, I don’t mind hanging out with you at least until ten, that way you won’t be lonely without your friends!” you say, trying to cheer her up. She hiccoughs and sniffles. Rarity looks to you, then to Twilight, then back to you. Twilight nods. The white filly sniffles the last of her mucus back up then wipes her eyes with the top of her forelegs. She looks to you and you smile. She was a little smaller than you, maybe younger you guessed. You extended a wing out and like your foreleg wrapped it around the little unicorn, it wraps her completely and your primaries rest on her chest. Her breathing is more relaxed now. She just stares at the floor, collecting her thoughts.

“Okay,” she says meekly. You unwrap her and stand, and she follows your lead. You turn your head to the clock, it’s seven-thirty, you leave at ten. Twilight eyes you both and the clock as well then looks to you.

“I have to get your stuff ready for when you leave, you can keep Sweetie Belle company here until then.”

“Thanks for understanding, Twilight.”

You and Sweetie Belle depart to a flight of stairs which leads to a second floor, and the unicorn directs you to her room. Inside are yellow tiles and a flower rug, and the wallpaper is mauve with lighter swoops and little hearts. There’s a proper lamp in here, plenty bright, burning kerosene maybe. A wooden toy chest sits open with various plush figures overflowing the rim. There’s a sliding window near the bed with deep blue curtains. Sweetie Belle glances confused at your environmental micrography. You look to her. Her eyes are still red and puffy.

“So, what’s your name?” she asks.

“I’m Anon, though my full name is Anonymous.”

“I’ve never seen you at the school here before. Do you live in Ponyville?”

“I live in Ponyville until ten tonight, but I don’t go to the school here. I’ll be going to school in Canterlot.”

“Wow, Canterlot? My sister loves Canterlot! She’s always going on about how she’s always dreamed of living there.”

“Why doesn’t she?”

“I guess it’s really expensive, plus she has no business locations there,” she answers. This filly isn’t that dumb, she has a bit of awareness.

“How old are you? Do you live with your sister?”

“I live with my parents but Rarity let’s me stay over sometimes. I’m nine. How old are you?” she asks, pointing a hoof interrogatively. You don’t actually know so you’ll just use what the doctor said.

“I’m 10.”

“Your wings are huge! Do you have some kind of medical condition?” she asks. You chuckle at this. Kids can be so unintentionally funny.

“Not according to the doctor at least!” you say. Sweetie Belle laughs at this and walks closer to inspect you. She lifts your right wing up and looks at it, squinting her eyes.

“You can fly with these? I have a pegasus friend who also has strange wings, but she can’t fly no matter what she does,” she says. You feel kind of bad hearing that.

“I can fly, though I’m not very good at it. I only really got it working recently.”

“You don’t have your cutie mark!” she exclaims.

“Huh?” you look back to your flank, “No, I do not.” Your wings hide the sides of your haunches, so she must have not noticed it until she lifted your wing up. She sets your wing down and looks at you quizzically.

“Well don’t you want to get yours?” she asks. The question surprises you a little.

“It’s not something I’ve been thinking about recently, I expect it to happen on its own eventually,” you say. At least that’s how you think it works, it’s not something you should really worry about, since it’s a mark of destiny or something of that like. It merely indicates your ability.

“Don’t you want to get it sooner?!” she nearly yells, her voice accompanied by little squeaks. You cringe a little at the volume.

“Getting it sooner would be fine but I wouldn’t be bothered if I got it later,” you answer, preparing to plug your ears if she decides to yell again.

“Oh, I understand. Lots of other foals are like that too,” she says calmly. You half expected her to chew you out for not being obsessed with it, but she just gave up out of nowhere. You laugh at this.

“So what about your horn? Can you do any spells with it?”

“No, I can’t, it just sparks.”

That makes you feel worse. Your entire purpose here is to cheer her up, but all your questioning seems to be having the opposite effect. You need to change tactics. You ask her if she’s ever played chess, she says yes but there’s no board in the house. You tell her about a new game and proceed to gather materials for playing it. A straight edge, paper, and buttons are needed. Rarity graciously lent a larger section of drafting paper and her straight edge. She gave you buttons, which you said would be returned upon concluding the game, whole wallets of them. Sweetie Belle had a pencil in her room. You composed the grid, nineteen by nineteen lines. You demonstrated the rules. Surrounding orthogonal spaces captures placed pieces. You enclose areas by placing pieces one after another. Whoever has the most territory at the end is victorious. It’s go. Sweetie Belle had never heard of the game. You both set about playing, you being the teacher, constructing situations within the game that let her learn more concepts. Throughout the game you converse on a variety of her interests, things she likes, how she prefers her pancakes, even the brand of shampoo she wears. You learn the fillies with whom she couldn’t go to the concert are basically her only friends. She and her friends are bullied by two upperclass brats. So called Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon. You tell her that she should shove a brick in their mouths and kick their jaws as hard as possible, she was somewhat horrified by this but understood your sentiment. She said she couldn’t harm them even if she wanted to or they would get their parents to hurt Rarity’s business. You think she should pour acid into their parents’ eyes, but you didn’t tell her that. You can tell she’s liking the game, she has a look as if this were the hardest she’s ever thought in her entire life. Her tongue poking out of her mouth, her brow’s an intense V, placing a blue button on one of the intersections. She’s doing well for it being the first time, she understands the objective and is making clear independent decisions. Definitely smarter than you gave her credit for. You give her a bunch of territory and pieces, and eventually the game concludes.

“You win,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

“You let me win,” she retorts.

“Yeah, I did, but did you have fun?”

“I did have fun! I’m going to show me friends and everyone at school, we can make a club!” she exclaims.

“Ah,” you get up. You grab a pencil from the bed and flip the board and commence to writing all the rules including the special situations for the game. If the game catches on then you need to make sure the rules are clear. You hand it to Sweetie.

“Thanks Anon, this game is pretty fun.”

“I’m glad you think so,” you say. Almost as if she were watching, Twilight enters the room and says that the chariot will be arriving any moment and you need to say goodbye. You say your goodbyes and Sweetie Belle embraces you, and instead of resisting or pulling away you reciprocate.

Outside is dark and chilly, and you don your shirt and pea coat, which helps very much against the few blasts of wind. You are back at Twilight’s and checking the last of your things, Twilight is looking around her room for more money to give you while you are in the kitchen. You grab your final items from there and zip close the pocket. Your things are tucked in a kind of duffel, and Twilight comes back down and places a veritable bag of money in your main compartment. It makes the duff so much heavier. Twilight says it’s 2,000 bits. Apparently, she gets a huge monthly emolument from the princess and never spends even a quarter of it, so she has boatloads of money just lying around in boxes. You wrap yourself in the washed scarf, Twilight did decide to give it to you. After trying to haul the bag on your back Twilight uses her magic to float it to the first floor. You mentally check everything else you would need and find nothing missed. Oh! You trot upstairs and grab the book Poetical Process from the shelf and balancing it on your back, take it downstairs. Twilight just nods and allows you to bring it. Outside you hear a clanking and open the door to see two armored stallions waiting. They are attached to a green carriage which is far larger than you were expecting, with double suicide doors, all of it lined in a black trimming. You embrace Twilight and she puts your bag in the trunk of the carriage. Opening the doors and sitting you get comfortable. Canterlot is some 4 hours away by your estimate.

“Goodbye Anon, make sure you write to me okay?”

“I’ll be sure to write the moment I know Spike is awake, there’s no need to worry. Farewell Twilight Sparkle, thank you for everything.”

The carriage departs and you close the window. Alone again, you shall brave this afterlife’s next stage. Onward, to Canterlot.

End of Part 1.

Author's Note

I wrote this relatively quickly as a kind of introduction to the main story that was cooking in my brain. The style may not be what's considered normal, but it's what I personally prefer to read, and so I wrote it that way. Hopefully I got rid of all the typos, but there might still be some. More to come.

Part 2, Subchapter 1

Anonymous Pegasus; The Doomed Clever Scapegrace

Part 2

Subchapter 1

You are Anonymous. Through dark and gelid windswept peneplain and snow-dusted fields of wheat and corn, through orchards of apples and oranges and pears sleeping through the winter, through alpine sticks sprouting like ghostly soldiers and swaying rhythmically in the gale, through nigh urman iced over and silent, through the sight of hamlets and sprinkled sulphureous ochres upon buildings which looked more like rocks at this distance, through iceplain hummock and frozen lakes where you could see the moon reflect its watchet glowing, and through the massive curiously ambrosial clouds of niveous and halitous bondage, you are here suspended. You are on route to Canterlot, and you find the ride mighty boring. When there’s a break in the snowfall you open the window, sliding it down, and peer at the distant night’s atrous infinity, little stars filtered through cirrus ice crystals, the moon watching silently. The stallions in armor are still chugging along, expressionless, their mugs like marble golems yet awakened. Their wings flutter slow and rhythmic, in sync, like in a trance. Maybe they communicate telepathically, they must be more bored than you are, at least you have a few books. Some of which you admittedly pilfered, some Twilight authorized you to keep. You decide not to bother the pilots and stick your head back into the car, closing the window. You think of sleeping, but you’d be woken by the drivers when you arrived, you think it better to sleep once you arrive.

Minutes of boredom turns to an hour of boredom, and you drive yourself a little mad with finding an activity in this vacant interior. Though you’ve had time to reflect on your experience here there was one aspect which stood out most significantly. Deceit. It was not to you that these ponies had acted in corruption or that their faults were somehow hidden, their masks were only those essential to living together. Merely a juvenile thought worm. Happy ones are evil or plain stupid, it said to you. This helminth was nearly impossible to exterminate, thoughts and actions passed through it as if an inviscation, coming out wrapped in scars and burns from people's past, personal and impersonal, a nihilist's simular boodle. Everything caked in this pseudo theory. It dripped from every thought. It was pseudo theory and you knew it, happiness is not illusion, it's nuanced, and has no bearing in social analysis. However one regarded such opinion, philosophical optimism or mere anthorism, it was necessary. Passing thoughts through this counter machine was part equipoise, part your only defense against yourself, the construction of which more accurate and complicated than the worm's primitive engine. Sadly, the petcock of your mech seems to get jammed far too often, and needs replacement. Too often do you forget this nuance, and resign yourself to depression and fear. Ponies here seem not to be as infected. Their kindness, their happiness, and also their ignorance are startling. Ponies aren't stupid, just behind. Their psychology is hedge labyrinth to your simple predator ideals. They seem yet touched by true evil. You ought to get smart quick though, the odds that there's more than meets the eye is near certain. If there is, you need to protect yourself, you need more knowledge. That's how you work, learning in the interest of self defense. Planning ahead for apocalyptic suffering which never comes. Action is naturally rife with danger.

It was cold in the wagon and it wobbled about in the turbulence, though you only really felt the sting on your eyes, your jacket and natural coat were plenty against the leaking heat. The stallions outside must be freezing. You open the window again. Peering out you see the lights of a huge complex, a city, a real city this time. In the moonlight sparkles the snowed and rocky face of an enormous mountain, its side speckled in primrose light, like a hilly flowerfield. No matter how hard you thought about it, there was no reasonable geological explanation for its appearance, it didn’t look volcanic, and seemed itself to be alone surrounded by pastoral topography. The city bled out and down the side of the prominence in little concentric venule corridors, which was in certain areas surprisingly level. The ground flattened out into terraces, each with two or three blocks of space, wrapping around the curvature of the mountain, then a number of stairs to the next. Near the foot, houses were more freeformly set apart, lots were wider, and the roads sometimes mere dirt. At the maximum of this complex were enormous platforms, turned over spherical caps, too dark to tell the material composition, looming like the shadows of planets, and upon the highest cap was a castle, walled off and elegant, but still a castle, defensive and lumbering. You can see the divisions between the districts. The upper was certainly that which set on the caps, the lower was everything else, all the way down the mountain and into the plain, and the consolidated area consisted of the fields and fields of agriculture, snowy and desolate. The architecture was curious, towers and spires dotted the city, and many buildings had these towers with cupolas installed, and their roofs were a kind of onion dome. Some buildings were more typical, but most buildings wore bright colors, blue and white, purple, yellow, only varying occasionally. You saw in the distance little lights from farmhouses and exurb dwellings.

The carriage slowed and descended. You saw what you believed to be the house, the Imperial Palace of Equestria. It was situated in the lower district nearing the foot of the mountain, and gated around over a couple acres. There was a driveway, it seemed to be concrete, and it curved into a car court, or carriage court more likely, and in the center a large plain fountain. The residence itself is Hellenic in style, the facade like an equine Parthenon or white house, Ionic pillars support a huge pediment, atop which are statues of ponies in various terpsichorean poses. Raised terraces of hedging surround the court, there are dirt hoofpaths leading to unknown features. There are lit streetlamps just for illuminating the court, all spaced equidistant along the rim of the pavement. You can see a few ponies, three you think, standing in front of the fountain waiting. The carriage lands and rolls and turns into the court. A mare in the same armored regalia as the drivers opens the trunk, you open the door and step out, stretching your legs. She uses her magic to levitate the bag after trying to lift it barehoofed and runs it inside ahead of you. The other two ponies, both mares, stand in befuddlement, then one approaches. They both hold halberds which holster onto their right sides. The armor is brass and clinky. The fountain is iced over, the frozen platform like pewter, and the basin reflects amber lamplight onto your green coat. The carriage drivers made indications to the guardmares and turned and started a trot, the wagon's wheels spinning on the smooth icy drive and then lifted as they flew away like reindeer. Not a word said from any of you, you begin to walk towards the house, passing the guard who had walked up.

At the door stood a rather managerial looking equine. She’s a white unicorn with brown hair, bundled in the back forming a bun, her securing band tied lose, her bangs splitting at her horn, resting above her eyebrows like stage curtains. She wears thick frames which sit below her ears and accentuate her chocolate eyes, and a collar much like the kind Rarity gifted you, with a little velvet cravat. She even ties her tail, how cute. She speaks to you in a neutral voice.

“Good evening Anonymous, my name is Raven Inkwell, I am Princess Celestia’s personal assistant and advisor. I have been tasked by the princess to assist in your settlement here as well as supervising your stay. The princess expects only a general attitude of respect and that you make the most of what she’s offered.”

“Where is the princess now?” you ask.

“She is at Canterlot Castle, most likely asleep. Come, it’s warmer inside,” she beckons you.

The foyer of the palace is as humble as a palace foyer can be, it merely being a square with three hallways extending from it, the area highlighted by pilasters, double high ceiling, windows peering into the foyer from above, chandelier bright on the white walls and marble floor. Immediately ahead is the living room, which you and the white unicorn venture and sit. The couches are white and floral, you take the wingback and she takes a love seat. She speaks softly.

“We have a lot on the itinerary for you in the next week. Please understand that the princess believes that you are the best pony for a political apprenticeship. Tomorrow you attend a preliminary examination at Celestia’s school for gifted unicorns, then…”

“Why would the princess think that?” you cut her off. She looks at you then procures a roll of parchment which was sitting on the coffee table with her magic. She squints at the writing.

“From what the princesses have surmised from the content of Twilight Sparkle’s extensive reports on your behavior, you seem to have a few remarkable abilities which make you an ideal candidate. You seem to be entirely immune to any and all psychological magic. It says that when you were admitted to Ponyville hospital, a neuronal repair crystal was activated and repaired your brain to an earlier state in the past, but you seemed not to lose any memory of the events between the state it repaired it to and the moment of treatment. Ponies never remember seeing the repair crystal and usually wake in confusion. Twilight performed a number of magical tests on you while slumbering and only found that you are a heavy sleeper. She of course listed a few things you said, and thought it prudent to inform Princess Luna of these, to which not even the princess of the night could enter your dreams,” she magics over a single ring ream of parchment and adjusts her chunky frames, “She wrote that you were incisive and considerably more mature than other foals your age, although a bit suspicious, and that you would be ideal for Celestia’s most intense curriculum. She wrote that your ability to work with others was well established, and that you took to cooperation. Your ability to detect lies and withheld information was also remarkable to Twilight, which she included here in her report. However, she writes that your thoughts are easily readable in your face,” she flipped the pages, “Beyond this, Twilight gave an extensive anatomical report on your wings, and cross referenced their size to samples in medical journals and wrote here that your wings were some four standard deviations above the mean for your age group. Here it’s written that in a little over an hour you went from completely incapable of moving your wings to flying with relative ease, all of these things without a cutie mark,” she taps the parchment.

“I see,” you rub your hooves together idly by your stomach like a defibrillator. You should’ve known that purple unicorn was nosy. Twilight’s silent observations were purposeful after all. You wonder when she decided to purposely advertise you to the princess, it must have been really early. These reasons were a bit strange, but you thought them logical. You can’t help but feel undeserving of this, all you really ever wanted was to live peacefully, ambitions like these were stressful and harmed the soul, so you thought.You feel without autonomy, but even if you did have freedom of choice that might not make a difference. You’ve yet to ask yourself the question: What do you want to do? You didn’t feel like you were living, and there is much to be done here, but you felt a paucity of meaning in that. This candied world seemed to swallow you more thoroughly than any ghetto or warzone could. You feel unnecessary, that your existence here is some almighty parapraxis, that you don’t deserve a second chance, whatever that may mean. You feel as an android with false memories of a false life. You look down and the white unicorn regards you. Detestable thought worms wriggle and putrefy. You ask yourself: What would be even the point?Are you not enjoying yourself? Is this not the peace you wanted? Where had your human spirit flown off to? Do you think the world not real? Do you think yourself more real than them? Who is real and who is pretend here? You, the liar and contrivance, or the fantasy? Why do you lie to others? Are you ashamed? Are you not touched by the kindness of others? Are you a coldhearted snake? Are you the mistake? Do you think yourself better? Do you fancy yourself a genius? Do you watch from the sidelines? Are you content to mere breathing? Are you discontent to live vivacious? Are you content to flagellation? Are you content to yourself? Do you think yourself a child or a man? Why do you utterly fail at living? What right have you to begin life?You slouch into the pillow of the wingback, your spirit all vulnerose.The white unicorn uses her hoof to wipe tears you didn’t notice dripping from your face.

“I understand that this is a lot, but I will be here to help you all the way,” she said with a motherly voice. She misunderstands, but at least she’s trying.

“Thanks,” you snuffle.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe,” more tears stream from your ducts. You ask yourself: Will you live this life? At least this once? For me? The white unicorn seems to think for a moment, then regards you again.

“If you are afraid of disappointing the princess, just know that your residence here is secure. No one is going to throw you out. No one is going to do anything to hurt you.”

“I just don’t understand why this is happening,” you say despondent. Ms. Inkwell turns the initial roll and thinks. She smiles and sets the roll on her lap.

“Princess Celestia is specifically looking for orphaned foals with some resistance to magic, be it psychological or physical. There are other foals peppered around Canterlot in the orphanages who have similar abilities. Nearly a hundred and fifty of them! You have something very special that the princess needs.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I was beginning to talk about before you cut me off. You will be going to the school for gifted unicorns tomorrow to take a preliminary exam with the other orphans.”

“So why am I here living in a palace?”

“Probably because you were the only foal Twilight Sparkle referred to the princess” she says with a nod.

“That seems like a stupid reason,” you say dismissively.

“Call it luck then. Either way, the princess decided to house you here. Are you dissatisfied?”

“Not really,” you wipe your nose, “I feel as if I don’t deserve any of this.” She puts a foreleg on your shoulder and you look up to meet her eyes, huge brown saucers.

“Then prove that you do deserve this,” she says, patting your shoulder. You sniff the dripping slime back into your nose and daub your eyes with your legs.

“Okay,” you say with despondent reluctance, “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, just do your best, I believe in you.”

After a few minutes of ponderous silence a pony shows up at the front door, another guardmare, this one lavishly decorated and stoneface. She has pins and badges fastened to her armor and a bright blue sash, and her helmet is worked intricately with scrollwork and natural symbols. They seem to like that aesthetic here. You stumble up from the chair and stand as straight as a plumbob before her. Her coat the color of dry butter with big icy blue eyes and a prominent horn, but you can’t see her mane. Her face weary but iron. She bows suddenly and speaks, her voice the gravel of a million sucked cigarettes.

“Ms. Anonymous, I am captain Sweet Quince of the royal guard. Due to increasing threats and changeling sightings and arrests across Equestria, and the fact that you are a commoner on royal ground, we have decided to increase the security of the palace. Bad actors may attempt to drive you out or control you given your connection to the princess. I have taken the liberty of procuring some of the best night guards in the country to keep watch of you,” she says, bold as brass. You are a little stunned by this.

“Where are they captain Sweet Quince?” Ms. Inkwell asks.

“They’re just outside, would you like me to bring them in?”

“That would be best, yes, and how many?”

“Oh, just sixteen,” she says. What?! How many guards were usually on this property?

“Sixteen?! My dear captain, that’s not necessary, especially for night guards.She only needs a few. Leave the best three and send the other thirteen back,” she commands.

“As you wish, ma’am.” She turns on a heel—Do ponies have heels? You think so—and trots out the door.

Outside you can hear a kind of bantering and chatting, and through the stained glass see the outlines of equines coming upon the entrance. The door swings open and enters swaggering three ponies, at least you think they are ponies, mares at least, armored in azure and onyx, all heat colored. They have cotton tipped ears, the fluff blowing in the entrance breeze, and membranous wings, leathery and mauve, venous and pointed, boney lumps indicate their joinery. Their eyes feline or reptilian, little coin slots for pupils, and their coats the duller shades of blue and gray and black. Their manes hidden in their spartan helmets. The black one speaks.

“So this is the one?”

“She’s so cute!” says the blue one.

“Stop messing around, act appropriately in front of the princess’s guest!” declares the gray mare. The door shuts and they straighten up, then bow.

“You really don’t have to do that, you know I’m only a commoner,” you say with awkward gesturing. They snap back up to attention.

“Where would you like us posted, Anonymous,” says the black one, completely monotonous and robotic. What is wrong with these creatures?

“Firstly, I want you to stop doing whatever it is that you are doing, it’s weird, act how you would naturally” you say stern as iron, at least as iron as a little girl’s voice could be. They seem to relax and then look at each other, then back to you.

“She’s adorable!” they say in unison. They approach and pet you all over, cold armored hooves touch your wings and hair, tussle your tail and smoosh your cheeks. Blasted freezing those metal gauntlets are!

“Look at her tail!”

“Look at her ears!”

“Look at these huge wings!”

“Enough!” you hear Ms. Inkwell yell. She censures them and sends them off to prepare for the night shift. Ms. Inkwell shows you to your room.

“They were interesting,” you comment, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“They are eccentric even for thestrals, but they are the best of the best. Princess Luna sends her regards. She sent the sixteen.”

“Tell her I said thanks, I suppose,” you say. Your room is rather plain, all white plaster and candled, a little wood desk, a little white bed, a little white dresser, a tea table, everything rococo and clean. The moonshine suffused the canvas surfaces with ice, and the candles battled with fire and blended in combatant illumination. Little falcate bands of blue and orange wrapped the molds of the stucco ceiling and wainscoting and meandered through the ridged and swirling carvings of the marquetry, and the flaked marble floor glowed.

That night the threstral guards stood right outside your door, and you could hear snickering and whispered gossip as you tried to sleep. You drift into dreams, the plush bed conforms to your silhouette.

Author's Note

I've decided to publish the subchapters individually instead of in one huge part. Apologies again.