Noctra Havarax

Three weeks of piano lessons later…

Cyrus straightened the shirt of his new suit, the disagreeable fabric gripping on his nipples as he squirmed. The royal tailor team had delivered a smarter form of dress for Cyrus at the behest of their Princess of the Night, who’s behest came at the behest of Cyrus himself. Unfortunately, they seemed to have missed a few marks. Wearing it just felt weird, the shoulders were slightly compressed, the waist was just a little too tight, and the trousers were incredibly breezy. Although, the crown clothiers didn’t completely fail their task. Despite the uncomfort, the black and white three piece suit did look the part, much smarter than the clothes that Cyrus had arrived in Equestria with. The illegal combo of Donald Duck hoodie and trackie bottoms are now forever relegated to pajama wear.

It was an interesting two weeks for the young pianist, his routine changed considerably now that Luna was taking lessons from him. After the first one, they had agreed upon meeting on the Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday of each week. This way Luna would have ample time for independent practice before each lesson.

And independently practice Luna did, having immediately splurged 2000 bits on a beautiful mahogany upright for her room. Cyrus had been completely shocked at the sheer studiousness Luna conducted herself with. She was a machine. Ask her to learn the C, D, and F major scales at 80 beats-per-minute? She’d have it done by the next class and it would be near perfect. It was very refreshing for him, having a student that took his teachings on with borderline insane levels of zeal. Luna was currently working her way through some Czerny-esqe Etudes, 110 progressive exercises, and was making remarkable progress.

However, as anypony does, Luna came with her own flaws. Very hilarious flaws. Finally comfortable showing some of her true colors, she had let her more easily frustrated side loose. She would, after making too many mistakes in a passage, often pound her hoof in exacerbation on the floor at her poor playing. Sometimes she’d get so upset that she’d have to kick off for a bit, pace the room for a second, or summon a dummy for rapid deconstruction. Cyrus can't help but smile at some of the memories. Him trying, rather unsuccessfully, to calm her down as she VERY literally hopped up and down in vexation. Listening to the stream of masterfully creative cuss words she’d let slip at her beginner-level playing. Trying not to completely lose it when she would pull the most absurd faces trying to suppress her screams of irritation.

In return, Luna had decided it was prudent for Cyrus to learn a bit about magic, given that he knew about diddly squat and was now surrounded by it. Unfortunately, his lack of magic-signature made it difficult for any practical demonstrations; most disheartening for Luna, that meant no dreamwalking despite the volume of rituals she performed. Although it didn’t really matter anyway, Cyrus’ sleep schedule aligned with the Lunar Princess’ quite nicely and dream visits were not necessary.

Thus, the magic lessons usually ended early, transitioning seamlessly into simply chatting shit and trading stories. Cyrus had deduced that Luna was a very chill pony when she wasn’t trying to commit homicide, always willing to crack a dirty joke or poke fun at something stupid.

More memories filter through Cyrus’ mind of Luna’s animated joking. She knew all the rude symbols and was sure to show and explain each one to Cyrus. Of course, Cyrus reciprocated, he is honor bound. Luna now knew what the ‘two fingered salute’ meant, she quite enjoyed that one even if she couldn’t perform it.

Overall, in an astonishing turn of events, Cyrus was actually looking forward to talking with Luna. Of course, the first week was incredibly awkward, but Luna was way too committed to let this opportunity slip by. Not to mention a certain batty pony who was always there to offer a bit of advice. Old wounds and embarrassments were starting to heal through time and comradery, each member becoming more and more confident in showing off their anima to the other. They even agreed to meet outside of lesson time for a few drinks.

Speaking of comradery and drinks, that studious batmare, Cutlass, had chosen to stick around as Cyrus’ escort, unwilling to let go of her ‘talk to me, cute stallions’ pass. Not only that, but the change of routine meant Cutlass actually had a bit of free time to do some things she wanted while Cyrus was off with cavorting with Luna. An insane win, win, and win. Cyrus offers a prayer of gratitude to ‘The Hammer’ for staying with him during the boring hours of the night and makes a mental note to figure out when her birthday was.

Individual performance aside, it was the combination of Cutlass and Luna that ensured that Cyrus had acclimated much better to his surroundings. The pair, through rigorous training, ensured Cyrus A) didn’t sexually assault anypony by making sure he knew which areas were okay to touch and which areas would land you in the slammer and B) not make a complete arse of himself when dealing with all of the intricacies of pony body language. Cyrus had to memorize it all.

There was an exam. Don’t worry, he passed with flying colors.

All things considered, Cyrus was having a lot of fun now. He was actually happy. Free room, good job, and most importantly: good friends. Even if life had thrown him for a crazy loop, he managed to walk away from the wreckage injury free.

Mostly.

Chuckling at the fond memories he had procured recently, Cyrus loops the tie over his neck, muttering the age old rabbit mnemonic. Successfully tied, Cyrus ganders closer to the mirror, peering at the knot for signs of imperfection. Satisfied, he gives himself a final once over.

The first thing he notices is how long his hair has gotten, its thick black sprawl almost becoming lady-like in its majestic length. The second, the lack of acne, probably due to the lack of incredibly oily food in his diet. Third, the offending stubble growing on his neck that really needed shaving. Cyrus makes a mental note to ask Luna/Cutlass for some razors.

A month and a bit since I’ve been dumped here. Moving mad… Cyrus muses while running a comb through his unkempt hair, trying to make it look somewhat presentable, Far cry from my first week. Now I’ve actually got something to look forward to.

Oh do you now?

There It is. His Monster materializes by the wardrobe mirror, nonplussed look upon its incomprehensible freakish features. It inspects its yellow, cracked talons like a bored store clerk dealing with a rude customer.

Oh for God’s sake… Cyrus mutters to It, turning away to ignore It. His Monster, ever the tormentor, slithers to block Cyrus’ path, boring Its rust colored eyes deep into his flesh. Reaching out, it stabs Its talons into Cyrus’ forearm, uncomfortably gripping it like the drunk uncle nobody talks to at a family gathering.

Let me go. I’ve got places to be. Cyrus cooly orders, determined not to let His Monster gain any footing in his mind. It chortles in response, shaking Its filthy black dust around the room while wrenching Cyrus’ body uncomfortably close to Its.

Oh I know, I know. That sickening little dinner party with the one who tortured you for a week without remorse and the one who did nothing about it. His Monster digs at Cyrus’ insecurities, trying to open an avenue of attack. Cyrus turns his nose upward at the petty attempt of getting a rise out of him, smacking the offending appendage away. Annoyance flashes across His Monster’s visage as Cyrus makes a show of dusting off his new suit jacket.

DO NOT IGNORE ME! It screams, reaching tendrils to try and shackle Cyrus once more in Its embrace, each attempt batted away by a willful smack.

Well first of all, she does feel remorse. And second, I’ll ignore you all I want, mate. Cyrus spits, unwilling to continue this petty squabble any longer. He waves a hand in dismissal. His Monster bristles.

This is usually how it went in the short bursts of alone time Cyrus had. At first, taking advantage of the uncertainty of his new surroundings, His Monster had made remarkable progress, planting worry after worry into Cyrus’ fertile and weak mind. But the resistance was on and Cyrus was slowly starting to unroot the foul weeds of insecurity. Each happy memory forged with Cutlass and Luna slowly adding to his growing arsenal of anti-anxiety gardening tools. The way they welcomed him, helped him acclimate, and, most powerfully, didn’t shun him when he let slip his apprehensions……

“Friend Cyrus, thou shalt tell me what is wrong posthaste.” Luna states with all the subtlety of a 40 ton lorry screaming down the M1. She stares at Cyrus with a flat expression, equal parts annoyed and concerned. Annoyed because she was trying to learn some modern music theory and Cyrus would not stop bucking sighing. Concerned because Cyrus does not read books in a way that hides his eyes from other ponies. That can only mean a few things and Luna had a pretty good idea as to what was going on.

After a second to gain a bit of composure, Cyrus lowers the book he was reading, Abridged History of Equestria, just below his eyes so he can meet Luna’s unimpressed gaze. Cyrus raises an eyebrow of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ while Luna raises an eyebrow of ‘don't bullshit me, I see right through you’. A most impressive war of facial expressions wage on between the pair. Luna breaks the sacred silence: “Cyrus, thou hast been sighing and swooning for the past thirty minutes. Unless thou art reading some smutty romance, there is no reason to be ‘pining’ so much.”

Cyrus’ brow furrows, matching his frowning countenance. Pulling his book back up, Cyrus attempts a classic play: ignore. Luna rolls her eyes at the shoddy display of petulance. Her mind shoots out to grip the book’s mana-field. Once firmly in her control, she rips it toward the corner of the room where it lands in an undignified thump. Cyrus shoots Luna a glare and a raspberry.

“What was that for?” Cyrus moans, crossing his arms defensively. Now it is Luna’s turn to sigh, although much more aggressively than Cyrus.

“Cyrus, stop being, borrowing from thy lexicon, a ‘little shit’ and tell me what is troubling thee. Thou hast been sighing in the most irritating fashion for the past thirty minutes.” Luna states, completely ignoring Cyrus’ question and, unwilling to dance around it, completely murders the bush, striking at the heart of her issue.

“It’s nothing” Cyrus grunts, standing up to go pick up his book and continue off on the absolutely riveting history of the Chineighese-Equestrian trade imbalance.

It actually was pretty riveting for Cyrus. Equestria, in a bid to trade for tea, silk, and porcelain, had opted for a different route compared to the British. Instead of hooking the Chineighese citizens on opium to finally have something to export, the Equestrians simply just ‘got good’ and developed an actual product to-

With a yelp of confusion, Cyrus is yanked back into his seat by the glow of a cerulean aura, centered at the hems of his hoodie. He tries to struggle against it, but Luna’s magical hold is too strong.

“Is it the amenities? Or perhaps an uncomfortable spat with a passing guard? Or, harmony forbid, my company?” Luna injects a bit of jesting into the last question, smirking at the human as she usually did when they were joking around.

Her smile disappears when she feels the shivering disturbing the mana-hold she had on his hoodie.

Accelerated breathing. Chewing his cheek to keep his face straight. Keeping his eyes trained straight, but pipuls shrunk to pinpricks.

Like when she dropped him in the fountain.

Luna instantly relinquished her hold, blurting out a string of apologies and regrets. Cursing her brazen, attacking attitude, Luna’s face banishes jest, changing to pure concern. Recovering from his fit, Cyrus slowly straightens himself up, unable to bring himself to look anywhere but his still shaking hands.

Too hard! Learn restraint I beg… Luna chastises herself. She tries to reach out a comforting hoof, but is frozen by apprehension. Slowly, Cyrus brings his gaze to meet Luna’s.

“Please, don’t do that again.” Cyrus whimpers, barely audible. The words cut like knives and Luna’s heart falls victim to the primal fear exhibited in his eyes and voice.

“I am truly sorry. I was not thinking. Please forgive me.” Luna utters her apology with reverent ignominy. The silence’s thickness pervades the room, only broken by the ticking of the clock. Finally, Cyrus musters some courage, putting a hand on Luna’s wither and drawing her out of her tizzy.

“It’s not you, Luna. It’s me,” Cyrus admits, voice still bouncing with residual agitation, “I’m constantly reminded… how similar everything is. But at the same time-”

“Nothing makes sense.” Luna finishes, draping a wing of her own on Cyrus’ frame in a show of empathy, patting his back in comforting motion. Feeling the movement of friendship and connection stirring in his chest, Cyrus finally lets loose the locks in his inner vault of insecurities.

“To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll fit in here. I don’t know if any of this is real. I’m terrified of…”

“Trying at all.” Luna finishes for Cyrus again, pulling him closer to her. Cyrus lets out a hollowed laugh at Luna’s decisive deductions. They look at each other in silent sensitivity, allowing space to stew in contemplation. Relinquishing her hold, Luna settles next to Cyrus’ chair, planting her flank on the floor.

“I understand thy feelings. I, myself, have trouble speaking on my doubts. There is no urgency from me, do as thy see fit.”

Those eloquent words fill Cyrus’ void. He isn’t alone. He meets Luna’s smile with a melancholic look of acceptance.

“Do not fear the integrity of our friendship. Though it be young, it is true. I think thy understand by now, I have no patience for dishonesty. Ask any of the nobles my sister somehow has the tolerance for. Thou art not a flight of pity, thou art my friend. I bless thy courage for allowing me a second chance.” Luna assurges, drawing from her own insecurity to understand and quell Cyrus’ fears. Cyrus locks his jaw in silent determination, the assuring words of Luna giving him the strength to resist his anxiousness. He nods his head in respect.

Picking up on Cyrus’ turning mood, Luna engages her wit to further along the process, as he had done for her on many occasions.

“And thou have even less to fear with ‘The Hammer’. Yes, I do know her nickname. If she didn’t like thee, she would likely have tried to fight thee. Her file of misconduct is most entertaining,” Luna quips, apparating a brown file labeled ‘Cutlass Stellabright’ into her azure hold, “excellent reading material, if thou art inclined.”

Cyrus lets out a chuckle at the mention of the fiery, golden eyed Cutlass, scenes of her legendary temper playing in his mind. Luna begins to read, but Cyrus silences her with a gentle nudge of her wither.

“Luna.” Cyrus starts. Luna looks on with gentle, amiable warmness.

“Thanks. That really means a lot……”

Cyrus was on his way to healing, to accepting his new situation, to allowing himself to be vulnerable.

And that made His Monster unbelievably angry. Spurned! Cyrus should listen to It. That ungrateful wretch.

So His Monster changes tactics. Nothing was off limits now.

Honey. Please. We miss you.

Harrowing words. Familiar voice. It makes Cyrus’ heart drop to the pits of inky blackness. Slowly, he turns his head.

Next to His Monster stands Cyrus’ mother, her mousy brunette hair tied in a neat bun at the back of her head like the facetime before Cyrus had ended up in Equestria. She was wearing what she often wore, a sentimental cream coloured blouse covered by a blue hand-crocheted cardigan. A long floral skirt flowed from her waist and past her knees. Cyrus’ throat tightens at the familiar sight as dread creeps into his spirit.

How could he have forgotten? His own flesh and blood. Too busy dealing with his own shit to think about the one who gave him life. Ripples of guilt tear through Cyrus’ mind.

Now that the shock and adrenaline of the first month has worn off, I figure a little nostalgia ought to do some good. His Monster cackles, running a repulsive talon from Cyrus’ mother’s cheek to the bottom of her chin. With a final squeal of delight, His Monster dematerialises back to the pits of where It crawled out of, leaving Cyrus and her mother alone in the room. She steps forward, reaching her hand out.

宝贝, 妈妈想你 [Darling, mom misses you]. She whispers in her soft motherly voice, her mispronounced Chinese causing a nuclear explosion of homesickness in the pit of Cyrus’ soul. Desperately, he wants to reach out, to hug her again, to speak to her again.

To tell her he was okay. To tell her he was safe and that she didn’t need to stress anymore and she should move on and that she… she…

Cyrus takes a step forward.

The thought of her mother, all alone since his dad passed away, sobbing her eyes out because her only son had one day disappeared with no trace. The only son she could have. All the other attempts failed. Cyrus was her pride and joy.

She could face the blisters and pain of overtime to provide for him. She could face the harrowing prospect of going to bed hungry so Cyrus could have a little extra on his plate. She could face the freezing cold of winter, moving the only heater they had into Cyrus’ room so he could sleep soundly.

How proud she was when he graduated, how proud she was at his first recital, how proud she was when he received a distinction on his 8th grade exam.

How she had fussed and fretted over his school uniform when he was a teen, how she had fussed and fretted over his first tuxedo for his first school concert, how she had fussed and fretted over graduation gown and cap during his graduation from the Royal Conservatory.

Those thoughts shred Cyrus’ stability to ribbons and effortlessly shatter his mental defenses. He chokes out a gasp, a river flowing down his cheeks. He grips his mother’s outstretched hand and she leads him closer and closer…

The balcony comes into view. Sprawling out in front of Cyrus is the beautiful scene of Canterlot under the shining night sky. The architecture and city are designed to melt into the mountain, complementing the features of the nature around. Roads carve themselves upwards and downward, and the streets teem with business, creating a heavenly painting of life.

But Cyrus does not see the beauty.

All he sees is how far down he can go.

Come, honey, we are waiting for you. His mother gestures to the waiting concrete below. A steep drop. Down and splat. He probably wouldn’t feel it, right?

Cyrus can not stop shaking.

His stomach threatens to upheave its contents.

Suffocating, yet his breathing gets faster and faster. His hand makes contact with the railing.

I miss them so much I want to see them so bad mom please don’t worry I’ll be there soon oh my God I’m going to do it I’m going to do it nononononononnononononono

His leg swings over the railing.

Mom I want to see you Jake I want to see you I miss you what am I doing here what exactly is there here for me there is nothing this place I…

They’ll be so sad.

BUT WHO CARES!His Monster, fed drunk on Cyrus’ despair, roars to life.

I do.

THEY AREN’T YOUR FAMILY.

But they are my friends.

YOU THINK THEY CARE?! THEY’LL CAST YOU ASIDE AS SOON AS THE NEXT BIG THING COMES. YOU. DON’T. BELONG.

But maybe I can.

With a scream, Cyrus shoves himself backwards and onto the floor, his back protests in pain as it makes contact with the cold stone floor. Howling, crazy, and manic laughter overtakes him, relief and disgust melding into a strange alcohol, ejected by Cyrus’ vocal chords in the form of grotesque guffaws.

HOLY FUCK THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE. He screams in his head, laughing so hard at his destitution that his throat starts to seize, not allowing sound to pass through his throat. Cyrus scrambles to his feet and puts as much distance between him and that terrifying balcony as he can. Once inside he rushes straight for the bathroom, screwing the cold tap as far as it would go. Running his hand under the magically cooled water, he ensures that his hands are ice cold before delivering a mighty slap across his face.

And another.

And another.

And he screams. He screams until his throat goes sore.

Empty, he collapses onto the floor, tears unable to form as he had already cried them all away. His Monster, tisking like a parent who was proven right, rematerialises in all of its miserable glory.

Don’t you see, all this pain… Is it really worth it? It asks. Cyrus looks at It.

He has no answer. It writhes in delight.

You should have jumped. It spits.

Cyrus tries his hardest to look away, but It reaches out before he can, prying his helpless head to Its visage. He was finally under Its control and couldn't fight back.

YOU’VE LOST EVERYTHING.

YOU ARE ALONE.

GIVE. UP.

…

祸兮福之所倚，福兮祸之所伏 [Hard times are hard because of the good, good times are good because of the hard]. The final words of wisdom Cyrus’ father, borrowed from 老子 [Lao Tzu], had uttered as he lay on the hospital bed. He held his sobbing son to his chest like he was the most precious thing in the universe because he was the most precious thing in his universe. Cyrus didn’t understand the words at the time.

How could he? He was twelve.

GIVE. UP.

I wont.

YOU ARE ALONE.

No. Cutlass and Luna care.

YOU’VE LOST EVERYTHING.

But I’ve gained things in return.

His Monster screams in frustration. Not wanting to clutch defeat from the jaws of victory, it lets loose one final strike.

THEY CAN’T REPLACE THEM. THEY NEVER WILL.

Maybe so, maybe not. How will I know if I don’t try.

That’s what his father meant. 活着 [To live], he had read that book a thousand times. Determination creeps back into him. Where they made contact with His Monster, Its form would hiss, smoke, and disappear. Letting go, His Monster aims Its rust colored eyes at Cyrus, shivering in angry defeat. Conceding for now, it fades from the room, not before spitting at Cyrus’ feet.

A sign that It would be back. It always came back.

Battered and bruised, Cyrus straightens his suit. Although he had won his victory, he had never come that close before.

That thought terrified him to his core.

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Meanwhile, the twin peaks…

“...yulvin til Noctis et Noctra.” Darvius finishes his prayer, the rustling sound of fabric and wings are heard as his herd unbow their heads.

Midnight Prayer. Darvius could never skip Midnight Prayer. It was too special to him. He grips his pendant, running his hoof along the bumps and ridges of the great oak tree it was fashioned after. It was his mother’s before she had left for the Great Beyond. She always wore it proudly, despite the fact it had fallen out of fashion eons ago. Noctra Za’lav do not wear symbols of nature, it is a weakness.

It never made sense.

His mother and father taught him to love everything. The earth, the sky, the stars, the night. Daylight too, for there would be no life without it. That is why he performs Midnight Prayer every day, a prayer for the living. Asking nature to live, asking it to grow and flourish under the balance of the universe.

The rest of Noctra Za’lav often skipped the Midnight Prayer.

House Hunt were always considered the ‘strange ones’, but they were an old house. In scripture, they had served Noctra Havarax faithfully in her conquest. In his youth, Darvius was proud of that, wearing it as a badge of honor to the chagrin of his parents.

Now? Who could say. He never was the same after witnessing the violence of the Ritual of Righteous Night.

His mother and father always regarded the festival with incredible vitriol, making themselves scarce during the week in which it was held. The young Darvius was forbidden to go. Of course, when parents make something off limits, it means that their children automatically have to do whatever it was that was forbidden. Darvius was no exception.

He came back sobbing, unable to process what he had witnessed, sick to his stomach.

Why? Darvius mused, as he often did while cleaning away the incense and quenching the candles. His herd disperse to perform their daily tasks, only housemare Serval remains by his side.

“What troubles you, dearest?” Serval clicks instead of speaks, not wanting to disturb the others who live nearby. She gently drapes her leathery wing over Darvius, pulling him close and planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. Darvius returns the affection, tiredly nuzzling into Serval’s chest, melting into her touch.

“Everything. Serval, I am terrified. The council-”

Darvius’ fretting clicks are cut short by an affectionate nip of his ear. Serval moves to comfort her lover, delicately caressing the spot between Darvius’ wings in the way he absolutely adored. Pressing her snout to his, she delivers warm solace.

“The council is full of rabid and violent fools. Do not concern yourselves with them. They cannot move without the High Elder’s permission, and she is no fool.” Serval’s soothing clicks cause the tension Darvius has held in his heart for the past three weeks to melt a little.

But only a little. The tension would remain as long as Darvius was forced to attend those bickering matches the council called meetings. Ordinarily, he would only have to attend the bimonthly traditional gathering, lovingly dubbed the ‘ordeal of fake smiles and empty promises’ by Serval. Things are different now, however. She has returned.

“They will destroy everything with their hatred, Serval.” Darvius clicks, shivering at the memory of their bloodthirsty eyes and howling screams of revulsion. Serval presses her hoof on Darvius’ cheek, pulling his gaze to meet her sparkling sanguine eyes.

“That won't happen, as long as if ponies like you remain. Courage, dear.”

“But how! How could She-”

Serval, having been here numerous times, pulls Darvius in for a kiss, shocking him out of his tizzy. Serval breaks it, now facing Darvius with a deathly serious expression.

“Then fight. Go to see Her. Ask your questions.” Serval orders through her clicks, snaking a hoof through Darvius’ mane in comfort, trying to inspire determination in her husband. Darvius sighs, closing his eyes, trying to let his thoughts melt into a pool of calm. Gently, he leans into Serval’s wither.

“You’re right. I will fight. I love you.” Darvius reverently clicks.

“I love you too.” Serval returns, trotting forward to collect the prayer mats. With Darvius back to baseline, Serval decides that it was prudent to return to what she was doing before Midnight Prayer: teasing the shit out of her husband. With dripping swagger, she saunters in front of Darvius, flicking her tail left and right in the way she knew he liked. Spreading her legs, she gives her rump a shake, relenting only when she hears a whimpering gulp from Darvius. Turning, she spreads her wings, lidding her stare and licking her lips, inspecting Darvius like a piece of meat.

“D-darling, n-now?” Darivus hesitantly clicks his question, blood already rushing southward at Serval’s masterful exhibition. Serval keeps up the act, stepping forward agonizingly slowly, swaying each step like a drunkard.

Before flashing her hoof forward, delivering a light boop on Darvius’ snout.

“Maybe later, but you’ve been shrinking your duties. Poor Lakla’s been neglected ever since she got back! Been away all that time… you know she’s not good at expressing herself. She’s been moping all week! I can’t stand it!” Serval nags in Serval fashion, digging her hoof into Darvius’ cheek to get the point across, “She likes it when you’re tied up, you know where the rope is. Now get to work!”

Chuckling, Darvius lowers his wings in defeat, bowing in respect to his housemare. Serval gives a jibing huff, turning and smacking Darvius’ face with her tail, a specific and faint scent makes its way into his nostrils. He knew he’d be in for a good time later.

Beside my family, I am invincible. Darvius concludes inwardly. Spreading his wings, he lifts off toward the garden shed. Lakla would be done hunting in about 45 minutes, plenty of time to get prepared.

He’s got a job to do, after all.

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Royal Dining room

“Tia, I love thee dearly, but how in Harmony did you manage to allow these, as Cyrus says, ‘patients’ into power?” Luna asks, it is the same question she had been asking for the past two weeks, just phrased differently. The sisters are discussing, as they often did now, the ins and outs of the new Olde party government.

“Because, Lulu, democracy is, believe it or not, a good thing. They were elected, meaning they represent the will of the majority of the nation. That is useful to know, believe it or not.” Celestia answers, it is the same answer she had been giving for the past two weeks, pretty much phrased the same every time. Luna frowns once more.

“But those foul creatures represent no pony but themselves. Tia, I am not stupid. This budget proposal thy tasked me with reading is nothing but paper for making oneself decent after defecation. Tis selfishness incarnate.” Luna asserts, screwing her face in frustration as she remembers the incredibly thinly veiled suggestions of deregulating safety conditions for builders buried in the budget proposal.

Celestia, ever the professional, takes a dainty sip of her tea before answering: “Well, that may be true, but that is where we come in. Remember, we still hold executive and political power.”

“May be true?! Sister, doth thou have eyes? Furthermore, thou misspeak. Thy hold political power. I hold nothing but my bone-dry plot in terms of influence…” Luna jests, sticking her tongue out at Celestia in an incredibly mature display.

Celestia rolls her eyes at the brash vulgarity of her sister, flicking the menu up with her magic to place a barrier between them. She already knew what she wanted, the confit zucchini l’orange was back in season and Celestia was going to abuse that fact for the next two months.

Luna, having been Celestia’s sister for a long time, knows that Celestia had already decided what she had wanted to eat at dinner long before she had eaten breakfast. This whole looking at the menu thing was all for show, Luna was getting under her sister’s coat. Ordinarily, she’d back off.

Unfortunately, it has been a long while since Luna had felt the satisfaction of successfully annoying the tartarus out of her sister.

And Luna missed that feeling reverently.

Which is why, as Celestia cowered away behind the thin piece of paper, she began to feel a few tiny droplets of water flick against her cheek. On a reflex spurred by thousands of old memories, Celestia’s eye begins to twitch. She hadn’t had to deal with that one for a while. Why, it had been phased out ever since Luna turned four-hundred and thirty-five!

Do. Not. Crack. Celestia mentally resolved as the wet pellets increased in frequency, matching the twitching of her eye and ear. It’s not the droplets of water that annoyed her, no she could deal with that. It was the meaning behind it.

No matter how hard Celestia tried, she just could not replicate Luna’s mastery over water. For as long as they were children, Luna would always lord her superior mana-focus abilities over her, usually with a massive grin that Celestia would have just loved to plant her hoof into.

“Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisteeeerrrrrrrrrrrrr, dost thou remember this one?” Luna engages her most annoying teasing voice possible, masterfully honed by years upon years of trial and error. It was working, Celestia’s mane was starting to shimmer, rising in the air as darker and harsher colors invade the previous light and friendly colors.

Do. *splat* Not. *drip, splat* CRACK…

Oh but I’ve missed this so much.

What that thought, Celestia attacks, sending the menu flying at Luna who deftly dodges it by twisting her head around. Capitalizing on the slight distraction, Celestia pounces on Luna with a manic ‘eeeeeee’, her face split by a massive giggling grin. Luna, not expecting this kind of fight, lets out a mighty shriek as Celestia’s hooves make contact with her withers.

Still taken by surprise, Luna loses the initial moments of this newly declared ‘tickle war’. Celestia’s hooves find purchase in the many sensitive spots of Luna’s barrel, digging and agitating with incredible precision. Luna can only let out a defeated squee of pure delight. Not willing to take this assault laying down, Luna engages her counterstrategy.

Leveraging superior strength and combat capabilities, Luna twists out of her chair, wrapping a foreleg around her sister’s neck in order to transfer the momentum of her jolting action. Celestia is not a wrestler, so she is unable to counterbalance the powerful force ripping her to the ground. Her back makes thumping contact with the carpet below.

With a crazed smirk to put the Joker to shame, Luna descends like a sea of locusts, pressing the advantage with vigor, unwilling to let her hard work go to waste. Luna’s hind legs twist and wrap around poor Celestia’s barrel, locking her onto the floor. Swifter than a praying mantis, Luna’s hooves dart to and from the various weak points located on Celestia’s neck, attacking without abandon.

Foolish Celestia, the battle was lost before it began.

Celestia can only kick her hooves in thrashing protest, laughing and squealing as her sister ensures she does not forget how incredibly sensitive her nape is.

Luna can only let out pearls of stringing giggles at the sight of her squirming sister.

“S-stop! *ehehe* I surrend- NOT THERE AHAHAHAHAHA”

The harrowing sounds of utter, disgraceful defeat from the solar diarch sound off in the room. However, Luna is not cruel. At the notice of her sister’s capitulating, she relents, unable to contain the snorting chortles escaping her throat. Luna returns to her seat, pure smugness wrapping her every movement.

Celestia, through the bouncing residue of mirth, staggers to her hooves, tears of joy staining her cheeks. Still shaking, she takes her seat once more.

“*heh* Oh I missed that, Lu,” Celesta remarks, wiping at her cheeks with her serviette, “oh Harmony how long has it been?”

“Last ‘battle’ I *snort* remember was perhaps *giggle* when we were one-thousand and forty-three?” Luna chokes through her snorting laughter.

“Nooooooo, that surely wasn’t the last one. I fondly remember you ambushing me during my one-thousand, five-hundred and seventy-seventh birthday because I didn’t save any cake for you.”

“Ah! Of course! How could I have forgotten?”

The sisters share amusement at their golden memories, still letting out a few bouncing bursts of laughter every time a particularly hilarious moment flashed before their mind’s eye.

“It’s good to see you like this again, Lu.” Celestia beams a nostalgic smile at her precious little sister, who, in turn, is wearing one of her own. One thing does nag at Celestia, however.

“Luna. Why did you call the Olde party leaders 'patients’?” Celestia screws an eyebrow upward in confusion at her query. Luna lets out another harsh bark of laughter at the mention of her newfound lexicon.

“Tis a most amusing and apt comparison. As Cyrus had explained, when describing one as a ‘patient’ it is to say they are ill of mind who belongs in the hospital. A patient.” Luna explains. Celestia’s face scrunches into a frown.

“Luna, that is a horrible comparison!” Celestia rebukes, giving Luna a hard stare. As Luna opens her mouth to deliver a counterargument, Celestia deftly cuts her off: “They’re beyond saving, a waste of hospital time. Shitstain is more apt.”

Luna, unable to process her usually regal and uptight sister swearing, blinks in pure shock. Celestia does not break, keeping the joke rolling by calmly sipping her water until she spots the complete bewilderment of Luna’s scrunched muzzle. Unprincesslike giggles exit Celestia’s mouth. Luna lets out a ‘huh’ of respect, nodding her head.

“So, you and Cyrus seem to be getting on well. Seems you’ve finally found somepony who is as ‘creative’ as you are with words.” Celestia changes the topic, trying to keep the conversation going. Luna giggles at the mention of her gangly friend.

“Ha! He is the true artist. Thou should take the time to learn the rhyming slang of his. Most creative.” Luna praises, brimming with pride at the thought of her newly forged friendship. Celestia can not repress the happiness tickling her vocal chords, made known in the air.

It had been far too long.

“Speaking of Cyrus, he seems to be quite late.” Celestia wonders aloud, glancing at the clock to confirm her suspicions. Luna rolls her eyes in exacerbation.

“Yes. ‘Fashionably’ late as he likes to say, ‘musician’s right’. Utter drivel. He does this for our lessons, you know.” Luna answers, ears flicking in slight irritation.

“Oh yes, how are those going by the way?”

“Bah! Frustration abound. It is almost as if my hooves are no longer attached to my body with how slow they react to-”

At that moment, a unique, rhythmic pitter patter makes its way into Luna’s keen ear. Unlike the hard sound of hooves clopping on the floor, it was the sound of fleshy skin pattering against the marble. Celestia looks on with confusion as Luna leans further and further out of her seat, mana already locked onto the door handle of the dining room.

Yep. About forty-four hooves out… thirty six… twenty two… aaaaaaaaand, now!

Luna yanks the door open to an incredibly startled Cyrus. Turning, with a mock sneer, she greets the new arrival.

“Thou art late, slag.” Luna declares with the might an Equestrian princess carries. Cyrus, used to the ribbing, completely ignores the jab, purposefully not looking at Luna as he enters the room. With a dramatic twist, he saunters to an available seat, cramping his large frame into the low-set chair.

“And that is how you enter like a pianist. Take notes, Luna, might help the playing.” Cyrus fires back with a shit-stirring smirk. Huffing, Luna sticks her tongue out, a gesture rapidly becoming her favorite display of maturity.

Celestia, having had enough, clears her throat incredibly loudly, drawing the attention of the other two in the room. She magicks out a list in her aureate glow and sets it beside her bread plate.

“Hello, Cyrus, it is a pleasure to be able to meet you again under better circumstances. Given that you and Luna are such good friends and we are running late, I think I can skip the diplomatic pleasantries,” Celestia says, glad to be able to cut to the chase for once, “first order, press conference. Word’s been leaking, the press is getting rowdy, we need to put a lid on it.”

Cyrus, a little taken aback by the sudden mood swing, looks toward a stony faced Luna for help. She can only offer a nod of encouragement to the human. Turning back, Cyrus straightens toward professionalism. Luna relaxes back to her seat as her sister and Cyrus begin to discuss the ordeals of the coming week, barely listening as she gorges upon the delectable bread in the center of the table.

Blah blah, press conference, blah blah citizenship exam, blah. Very boring, very standard. On they drone, through the starters, mains, and dessert. Luna only ever quips in once in a while to inject a bit of wit into an otherwise dry conversation, earning some laughs out of Cyrus and annoyed huffs from her sister. Finally, the plan is formed. Cyrus would swear fealty to the crown a week from now and he would be granted an emergency visa until he can get his citizenship sorted.

“Oh, and one last thing.” Celestia manages to interject just as Luna and Cyrus shift up to leave. Luna groans inwardly, having been mere seconds away from freedom. Flopping with a huff, she retakes her seat.

“Cyrus, I would like to invite you to play at the Grand Galloping Gala. Luna tells me, and I quote, that ‘you are perhaps the most gifted musician to have ever graced her ears’.” Celestia slyly jabs, wanting to get one over her sister after the embarrassing tickle-war loss she had endured earlier. The effect is instant, Luna’s face colors lavender, not because Celestia was embellishing, but because she was telling the truth.

She did actually say that, albeit a little sloshed on gin.

Cyrus also blushes at the compliment, eyes darting toward Luna for conformation. She flicks her mane in expert movement to block of Cyrus’ vision while shooting her sister a withering look.

To the novice, Cyrus, Celestia’s smile seems kind and genuine. To the expert, Luna, Celestia’s smile was that of impish smugness, evidenced by the slight crinkle in her left eye.

“I- uhh… Sure? I mean… I’ve never heard of this event?” Cyrus stammers through his confusion, blissfully unaware of the war raging between the two sisters. Flashing a cheeky, almost invisible, wink at Luna, Celestia returns her attention to Cyrus.

“Oh, silly me. Of course you haven't. It’s quite the big event, dignitaries and nobles across the land gather for an evening of celebration. I’m sure there will be some other impressive ponies there as well.” Celestia lets the insinuation hang. She didn’t like nepotism, but for her darling sister she could relent. Cyrus lets out a massive grin, 关系 [affluence] finally working his way. Luna’s previous incredulity melts to a gentle appreciativeness. Reorganizing the set list would be no small feat and Luna understood that fully.

“Yeah, sure. I’d love to play! Uh… I’m assuming the programme is meant to stay in the realms of classical or romantic?” Cyrus forays. Celestia gives a nod of approval. Instinctually, her eyes dart to the clock.

“Goodness! Is it that late? Appears we are due to perform our duties.” Celestia rises from her seat, neatly setting her cutlery onto her plate. Grumbling, Luna follows suit. Before she exits, a bit of remembrance strikes her.

“Cyrus, I have something I would like to show you tomorrow. Would you be willing to meet at garden number three an hour before our lesson tomorrow?” Luna asks, cheeks slightly tinged with shyness but her chest bursting with excited anticipation at her plans. Cyrus nods and gives a ‘yeah sure’, flashing a smile. Slightly giddy, Luna skips down in her sister’s wake, catching up slowly.

Things are finally looking up!

.

.

.

.

The twin peaks…

The council bickers, roaring and screaming in their holy, clicking tongue across the cold stone. Twenty-four seats for the twenty four houses, Darvius sat on his lonesome. Behind them, the herds of the house heads sit and wait, glaring at opposition while whispering to allies. The horde is silenced by the slam of a hoof.

That pisser. He puffs out his chest, eyes of egotistical smugness scanning the room for any protest to his right to speak.

Darvius did not like this stallion. Leader of house Acheron. Brantus.

“We waste our time! She is waiting for us! The desire of our race has been made anew! We should march. NOW!” Brantus spreads his wings, flashing his teeth in violent fervor. His allies let out clicks of approval, filling the air with their savage approval. The dogma is strong, support is very widespread. Darvius knows he must quell the fury before it gets out of hoof.

“Let us not be so hasty. We still do not-”

“DO NOT KNOW WHAT?!”

Darvius’ speech is cut short by Brantus’ angry outburst. He stomps across the floor toward him, glowering. Poorly veiled contempt is made known on both of their faces as they stare each other down. Darvius usually draws back, giving space, allowing Brantus to pace about the room like a mating peacock, blasting his tired speech of hope. A dangerous hope.

Normally, Darvius would allow Brantus to spill his hatred into this holy space, unwilling and unable to fight back.

But not this time. There is much more at stake now.

Darvius stands, baring his fangs and lowering his head, the sign of conflict, while keeping his eyes trained on Brantus. Not expecting the display of hostility, Brantus is initially shocked, stepping back in reflex. Darvius hisses, stepping forward for every step back Brantus takes. Recovering, Brantus launches a counter offensive, lowering his head to match Darvius. The herd members watch on silently.

They pace the room in agonizing circles, every so often letting out a hiss or a growl, trying to see if the other would back down. Krivis and Serval look on in worry, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of fighting.

“House Hunt should stay where they belong. In the past.” Brantus resentfully clicks, earning a growl from his opponent.

“Perhaps you could learn from us. Immodest fools. House Acheron is full of blithering rock-heads.” Darvius volleys Brantus’ insults, stepping forward to protect his house’s honor. Brantus chuckles, raising his head and looking around the room dismissively. His allies shoot short mocking clicks toward Darvius.

“The pup wishes to play with us? And with what vigour? House Hunt is full of peace loving grass-eaters.”

A bridge too far, Darvius’ anger leaps forward into his wings as they poof outward. His crimson eyes shrink, pupils slitting thin.

I’LL KILL HIM! GRASS-EATERS? I’LL TEAR HIS BODY APART, I-

Calm yourself, Darvius. Remember mother and father. ‘Anger is your power, it is not to be wasted on trife matters.’ Father’s favorite verse.

Letting out a calming snort, Darvius folds his wings back into place. Spitting at Brantus’ hooves, he turns to retake his seat.

“Your base insults betray your immaturity. House Hunt has eaten more cups of salt than house Acheron has drank blood.”

Darvius can practically smell the shock emanating from Brantus and his allies. Shaking, Brantus stomps up to the retreating Darvius, treading in front of his path with a scowl of rage. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, unable to form the words to describe his anger. Without a sliver of emotion, Darvius seats himself, completely ignoring Brantus’ heaving and heavy breathing. He knew Brantus was powerless, everything spoken was the truth.

Bristling, Brantus retakes his seat.

The bickering resumes once more, never ceasing until the early dawn.