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                 The Impermanence Of Sand                  
                        -by Estee-                         
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                         Censored                          
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Censored
There were ways in which the exceptionally beautiful immigrant from the griffon homelands was still trying to figure ponies out, and this continued despite the fact that she biologically counted as an equine. This was considered to be possession of a particularly effective disguise -- one which didn't really do all that much good, because Fleur couldn't do anything about getting her heart to match. She passed for a native Equestrian during encounters of short to moderate length, but anything over that was just giving the mask an increasing amount of time to potentially slip and if it ever came off --
-- anyway, 'normal' ponies, which just meant the ones who hadn't had the great fortune to be born and raised into the Protoceran culture. They were... 'weird' was somewhat fair, if decidedly understated. But they could also be rather predictable. For example, it had taken Fleur roughly two days after crossing the border to realize that Equestrians really didn't like dealing with big problems. The typical pony solution to any big problem was to very carefully orient one's snout to be facing directly away from the Problem, then twitch the tail to get it out of perfect alignment with whatever they weren't looking at any more. (Unwatched Problems had been known to bite.) And then the pony would carefully trot away, because the single best way to deal with anything major was clearly through waiting for somepony else to come along and take care of everything.
Fleur, if gifted with somepony (or in this case, somepony else) to openly argue with, would have readily suggested this had effectively turned into the species' default approach. Nudge the issue under the nearest rug, then pretend it didn't exist while starting the countdown on a very long-running timer. Because surely if you waited for one, two, ten centuries, somepony would come along and wonder why that apocalypse-shaped lump under the carpet was sending up plumes of stinging acid. And might even consider doing something about it. Other than 'keep on trotting because there's at least twenty years to go and obviously that means there's no hurry at all...'
Ponies avoided confrontation. They'd set up their entire world to become as predictable, staid, and boring as magic would allow -- and then they didn't want to deal with that.
Take, just by way of extremely current example, deep cold. The Weather Bureau had arranged for that. Today's chill wasn't the natural result from semi-random collisions of vast atmospheric masses: it had been scheduled. In fact, today was set to be the coldest time of the year, by far too many lost degrees. And as Fleur understood it, this was meant as a last-ditch defensive measure: take any biting insects which might have survived the first part of the season and make sure the outside ones died. She even recognized the necessity -- but the unicorn, who came from a warmer country, didn't exactly enjoy a Ponyville winter day of the standard-issue sort. The current conditions, which turned any theoretical mass gathering of exhaling equines into the generating units for an anti-pegasus wall of solidified breath, struck her as being something less than pleasant --
-- except that, unlike just about everypony in the settled zone, she was dealing with them.
There was a schedule! Ponies had moons in which to prepare! And most of them... hadn't. The tall mare had just about the whole of Ponyville's streets to herself, because nearly all of the population was huddled inside homes and businesses. Staying in close, near-inseparable proximity to anything and anyone which generated warmth: pets were getting a lot of extra cuddling, and didn't fully understand why. And the Equestrians would have effectively trapped themselves, seeing that as easier than bothering to confront the cold. Huddle, pretend to shiver, and mutter a few dark words about the Bureau. That was it.
...then again, most of them barely knew how to put on clothing. Winter was seen as a time when you took on the forces of normal seasonal chill through two means: head-tossing a scarf around your neck, eventually followed by spending six post-exposure hours next to a fire because for some strange reason, the scarf just hadn't done all the work on its own.
Fleur, during the days when she'd been called upon to attend multiple high-society parties, would typically make do with the sort of warm kickover cape which kept her intact in the reception line just long enough to reach the hot drinks. However, working as a veterinary assistant didn't exactly give her a dress code to match her escort days (which had mostly been about 'how quickly does my client want me out of this?'), and so she'd -- layered.
It was easy to trap heat. You just put on a thin article of clothing, and that kept a little in. Then something thicker went over that, capturing still more warmth. Continue to don items, where the only cautions were to make sure all joints still had some range of motion and of course the snout had to stay exposed because not only was breathing still important, but you never knew when you were going to need an anti-pegasus wall. Especially for Fleur, who didn't really find any true entertainment in blaming the Bureau. It was much more fun to blame Rainbow directly. Generally over lunch. While keeping a close watch on the weather coordinator's face, just in case the pegasus tried for a revenge lunge.
Fleur was more-or-less trotting through frozen streets under a too-grey sky, one which continued to darken as an equally too-early Sun-lowering approached. Just about every detail for one of the realm's most attractive forms had been obscured by color-coordinated cloth. Her head was just about fully exposed: too much ear coverage blocked a degree of hearing, and there was really only so much anypony could do with the combination of 'unicorn' and 'hood'. But she was, with the exception of those fine features, just about... warm.
In fact, if she moved too quickly, she tended to start overheating. Something which left her stopped in the center of an empty road, waiting for the proper amount of chill to make her comfortable again.
And she was heading directly for the library, on one of the coldest days of the year.
Lights streamed through the windows, coated the snow with warm glow. A white-rimmed, full-sized book fort made of hardcovers (and all the same one) took on highlights of protection, which soaked into the repetitive chapters. Bare branches rustled in winter wind, and the telescope on the balcony swayed.
Ponyville's library.
Locate book.  
Check out book.  
Leave.  
Before I die.
It was among the worst places in the world for an already-warm pony to be.
Or pass out.  
...try to find Spike before that happens.  
It's not his fault...
...well, technically, it sort of was -- but only if you were the sort who enjoyed blaming others for accidents of biology. Spike, who had a pony's heart (soul), simply possessed the -- misfortune? -- to have been born as a dragon. And while that came with a certain amount of inner fire, his simply didn't burn hot enough yet. The coldest day of the year would find Spike curled up in a basket (which should have been replaced by a proper bed ages ago), in direct proximity to flame -- within a tree which was currently serving as the single hottest building in Ponyville, because the older sister wanted her little brother to be safe and healthy and any library patrons who passed out from heat exhaustion were just a side effect. Given how many layers Fleur had donned just to get this far...
The dragon with a pony's heart. The griffon who had found herself trapped in a unicorn's body. They understood each other, and she always tried to speak with him.
If I do start feeling faint, remember to push my body to the side.  
Because I'll probably have sweated through all of my clothing and if I don't do that, I'm going to pass out in a puddle.  
A salty puddle.  
And if any of the books get splashed, Twilight's going to turn sarcastic.
An experience to be avoided -- but Fluttershy wanted something to read. A mystery novel, for preference. The next, just-released volume from an ongoing series. And Fleur didn't really understand why. She was perfectly capable of reading for pleasure (and, with those who believed that beauty and intelligence were inversely proportional, sometimes enjoyed demonstrating that she was perfectly capable of reading), but when it came to the caretaker's dedication to genre and author...
Solve a mystery. Okay: a lot of vet work was about exactly that. Put together the clues in order to prevent a death. So maybe Fluttershy was trying to keep her deductive skills sharp. Except that... in a mystery novel, the author arranged the clues, planted the false leads, was presumably snickering somewhere over all those who followed the scant trail to the wrong conclusion and just to hoof-hammer it home -- even if you solved the 'crime', you couldn't use the results to gain vengeance (or 'justice', which both frequently didn't work and took much longer), because nopony had actually died. Treat it as a puzzle, certainly, but -- why become emotionally invested? Why, as she'd caught Fluttershy doing, weep over the passing of those who had never existed?
What was the point?
Fleur didn't understand. But a failure to comprehend her love's tastes didn't negate how she felt about the pegasus and besides... she was the mare who was actually in town.
...at least try to say hello to Spike...
But she couldn't see him. Not on the main floor, not from the entrance. Not even when just about every sight line was clear.
It was possible that he was in the sleeping area, taking an early nap. Heat had a tendency to rise, so the little dragon was better off on the upper level anyway -- but Fleur couldn't go up to look. Not without finding the librarian and getting permission first. Twilight didn't take well to ponies casually trotting into her bedroom. Those who also 'borrowed' books from her personal shelves were basically starting the countdown on Time To Ban, and there was a persistent rumor which claimed that discovering a pony under her bedsheets had ultimately produced the partial crack which had marred the front door's inner surface since well before Fleur's arrival in Ponyville.
No dragon in direct view. There were also no patrons, because the schedule said it was going to be one of the coldest days of the year and who else was going to bother getting dressed up for a trip to the library? From what Fleur could see, the population of the tree was just her --
-- that's Twilight's corona hue. Over by the eastern perimeter.  
...and it went out.  
...and it's back.  
Something odd about the borders...
Fleur was too far away for a clear look. But, based on the way the field's pinkish light kept winking out, Twilight was doing a lot of short-term -- somethings. Reshelving, maybe. Fleur had heard that rumor a few times.
Still, it told her where the librarian was. It was one of three vital pieces of information which Fleur needed to complete her errand: the other two were the location of the New Releases book display and the exact amount of sweat which had just sprung into her coat at the instant her fur had contacted the library's oppressive warmth: Too Much. The timer was running...
Find the book.  
Check out the book.  
Verify Spike.  
Get back to the cottage.
Or rather, get back to the mare she loved. Having the cottage involved was... more of a side effect --
-- the unicorn forced herself to move down the aisles. She just needed the big table near the librarian's desk --
-- no copies.
There was a precisely-lettered index card on the display table, showing the place where Fluttershy's desired book should have been. Fleur didn't consider the card to have much of a plot, but the grammar was precise.
Fine. But if I know Twilight...
...she didn't. Not very well, especially on a personal level. The alicorn generally accepted Fleur's presence as a necessary part of having Fluttershy be happy and to that extent, Fleur was reluctantly granted a certain amount of value. But Twilight wasn't exactly thrilled about it. And the two mares had nothing in common. No anchor points from which they could begin to build a bridge. Just for starters, Fleur was fully comfortable with the sexual side of her own nature, and Twilight -- responded to any twinges of desire through desperate repression, apparently because she had yet to fully reconcile what had happened after she'd originally acknowledged them.
Fleur didn't have the full details, because Fluttershy protected all of her friends. But it hadn't been hard to work out the basics. Twilight had turned those first tentative tendrils of desire towards the wrong pony, and... the librarian was still afraid to try again. Being around somepony who was so open in their sexuality...
...who understood desire...
Fleur was still trying to work out certain aspects of how Twilight functioned as an individual. Recognizing the ways in which the alicorn approached being a librarian had taken about nineteen seconds.
...she might have decided to do a favor for a friend. Pull one copy early and effectively reserve it without actual request. Pale violet eyes reluctantly regarded the Holds cabinet. And I can't just take it. Not only would she freak about not having a book checked out properly, but I've seen her casting protective effects on that thing. The main difference between getting into that versus the palace armory is that with the palace, it would be a lot harder to get this far.
But since I know where she is...
Fleur looked around. Waited for the next flare of light, and then began to trot in that direction. Carefully, because the heat was building up under the layers. What it seemed to be building was living space, which might have been why it kept inviting company.
There's her corona again. The lumens are -- off. There may be something odd going on with the borders.
Maybe she's experimenting with that spell which is supposed to teleport books back to the library after their checkout period expires.
Again.
...I still want to know where that journal went.
Still on the approach, coming up to what Fleur was certain would be the final turn.
Something angular about that last flare. She may not be in the best mood --
-- the library had a labeled Returns cart, because the mare who ran the tree had mostly given up on ever getting patrons to put things back on their proper place on the shelves and yet still retained vague hopes that a rolling wooden platform would help: if nothing else, everypony could put things down in the same wrong place. Additionally, not every librarian in the tree's history had possessed the ability to effectively glance at a book and tell it where to go, plus having multiple floating hardcovers surrounding a moving pony was a bad idea. So the cart had a use.
It was currently almost holding books.
There were ten volumes in play, all surprisingly thick. The binding seemed to be exceptionally solid -- and that was all Fleur could initially make out for the books themselves, because she was trying to view them through the light of Twilight's field. A corona which was far brighter than it should have been, and --- the borders were -- coruscating.
Any use of magic was an united act of mind, soul, and emotion. That last created resonance. The emotional intent behind a spell, which could change how everything came out. Even basic manipulation was subject to it. And Twilight...
The glowing books came off the shelf. Dipped towards the top of the cart. And then one of them would -- jerk. A volume might float closer to Twilight's lowered eyes, flip itself open for an instant -- followed by slamming shut. The book would then move towards the cart again, but never quite reached it. Some of them drifted back towards the void they had once called home. And if the librarian noticed that, they were pulled towards the cart again, this time with more force...
The borders of the field coruscated. Twitching between the wavering of deep sorrow and the hard spikes of rage.
One half-drifting volume came a little too close to Twilight's snout. The field bubble spontaneously tightened, and Fleur heard the sharp crack as the front cover's lower right corner sharply bent --
-- what...?  
Did she just --  
--- did Twilight Sparkle just --
-- the librarian's head began to turn. The alicorn's body started to follow.
Right. Prey sense is a thing. It was hard to watch a pony in close proximity for long without having them pick up on it.
Twilight looked around. Then her vision encountered layer-covered legs, and she looked up. Or rather, she started to look up. Completing the process took a while.
Fleur was beautiful. One of the most attractive mares in the world. To have her out in public, among those who'd never seen her before, would leave ponies walking into walls because the eyes had important things to do and the legs had just kept on going. Even some of those among the other sapient species would pause and admit '...I get it'.
She was also tall. There was nothing stretched about her form: everything was proportionate and elegant. She just happened to share an eye level with Princess Cadance. And Twilight... Fleur had asked, and Fluttershy had verified it: following the alicorn transformation, the librarian had been gaining height and mass -- but it was a very slow process, and she'd started as one of nature's Size Os: exceptionally slender (and prone to missing meals), with a narrow rib cage and a stature which most adolescents could look down upon.
To see the two mares in close proximity was to examine the space between them in hopes of finding the rest of the bell curve.
"Fleur," was oddly... toneless. A quality which felt enforced. "I wasn't really expecting anypony in today. Not with the cold. I was sort of hoping to get at least one pony, but..."
The closest field-held book dipped. Rose. Corona boarders quavered and spiked in turn. Anypony could see that aspect of Twilight's emotional state just by looking at the field. And Twilight, with Fleur observing... didn't seem to care.
"If you're looking for Spike," the alicorn continued, "I took him to the Boutique. Direct teleport to the basement. She keeps a space there clear for that, and she turned the heat up for that day. I'll pay for that. I was going to send him there anyway. Most freezeout days are just reshelving. He gets bored. But I... just didn't want him here today. He can't be any part of this --"
Stopped. The narrow rib cage pushed itself through a slow breath. Eyes dipped, raised again.
"...why are you here?" the librarian asked.
Fleur had an easy answer to that. A fast way out. But one of her own questions was blocking the way.
"You -- know that you just damaged that book, right?"
Fleur didn't know Twilight very well. But you didn't have to be around the alicorn for all that long before recognizing that certain things were wrong.
The purple head tilted slightly to the right.
"I did?"
Fleur nodded.
"Which one?"
A careful angling of white horn indicated the wounded. Twilight turned to regard the target.
"Huh," observed a fully-neutral voice. "Will you look at that. I did. By accident."
The damaged hardcover was fully separated from the group, brought closer for examination within its own isolated field bubble. And then the world's thinnest smile appeared on the alicorn's face.
"So if I actually tried..."
The corona began to collapse inward.
All of the corners bent. The spine started to indent, followed by showing the first signs of fracture. And there was a sound which was a little like a lot of paper being crumpled and a lot like stiffened cardboard being compressed, but it was all happening so slowly, the librarian was taking her time about the process as the book was pushed in on itself about a tail strand at a time, unable to resist or fight back or do anything, as helpless as --
-- how do I stop her  
how does anypony --
A partial corona was dancing on Twilight's horn. The lowest possible exertion of magical strength.
It was possible to catch the alicorn in a bad mood. Most of the town had seen her angry at some point. But --
-- she doesn't do this.  
She doesn't express it through her magic.  
...I am one body length away from a mare who, if she ever truly became upset with anyone, could turn them into a sphere of biomatter.  
A very small sphere.
Get enough of them together and minotaur kids could have a game of marbles. It would take minotaurs, because the spheres would be rather dense. Heavy. And perhaps they would eventually stop leaking.
There's no Bearer close enough to reach and Spike is at the Boutique.  
What can I --
The pages were starting to go, and it multiplied the sounds. It was as if the book was screaming.
"TWILIGHT!"
"Just a moment, Fleur," the alicorn almost peacefully said. "This won't take very --"
The Protoceran moved.
"-- OW!"
Every field bubble winked out. Books fell. Some of them landed on the cart. One came to a stop at the edge of its shelf, then teetered there. The half-compressed volume wound up slamming down between them.
Twilight's eyes slowly looked up. Focused on the elegantly-hoofticured white keratin which was still in contact with the dark horn.
"And I can backlash you again," Fleur quietly said. And that still works when the caster is an alicorn. Good to know. Not that it would save any future marbles who'd had the bad luck to offend at a distance. "Twilight, we don't know each other very well." Still. "But I think just about everypony who's ever been in the library knows that Twilight Sparkle doesn't hurt books." And risked a breath. "What's going on?"
Anger radiated from those purple eyes, accompanied by frustration and... a touch of sorrow. But the horn remained dark.
"Lower your foreleg," Twilight softly ordered.
"Not until you tell me --"
"-- it's easier if I can also show you," the librarian said. "In order to show you, I have to get something. With my corona. And your hoof is on my horn. And you're probably going to kick it again if you see the first hint of glow. So. Lower the foreleg. Please."
The 'please' hadn't been.
"Twilight --"
"-- I will not go after the books," Twilight steadily continued. "Or you, if you're worried about that."
Slightly, Fleur's mind drastically understated.
"Not until after you understand," the alicorn wrapped up.
The unicorn's lips managed to quirk.
"So you're promising to only target me after you finish," Fleur said. "I don't think I can agree to that."
With a sudden surge of fury, "You're misinterpreting on purpose! I obviously meant the books!"
"Your phrasing wasn't clear and I'm closing a loophole," Fleur half-corrected. "Well?"
In the low mutter of insult, "I never would have..." and then "Fine. It's just showing and telling. Like it was always going to be."
"And you swear on...?" Which had a little genuine curiosity behind it. Sun? Moon? The alicorn occasionally swore on Discord. And rather more frequently, at.
Instantly, "Applejack's necklace."
It doesn't matter if I can't really take that seriously. She will.
"Fine."
Fleur lowered her foreleg, and did so while keeping a close eye on the alicorn's eyes. Watching for the first sign of intent. It mostly meant she got to see the first spark of thought.
"And now that I think about it," the librarian considered, "there's something I really should ask you. Right now."
Twilight's horn ignited.
None of the energy projected itself towards the tall mare. Instead, a hard-spiking corona went up to the top of the bookcase, and fetched -- a magazine. Fleur hadn't seen it there, possibly because the library tended to be well-regimented and the place Twilight wanted ponies to be looking for magazines was in Periodicals. It had also been slammed down so hard against the wood as to render the paper a little closer to two-dimensional.
The issue was half-floated, half-flung towards Fleur, with pages developing little rips in mid-flight: she didn't back down. She recognized the publication: one of the very few reputable news sources in the nation, with a well-earned reputation for investigative work. There was a stallion on the cover --
'There Is No Safe Word'.
That was directly under the picture. The title of the issue's featured article.
What has she been reading? I can guess the general topic, but if she's been picking up some really bad ideas --
"I need to know something right now, Fleur," said an alicorn voice which was about two dropped registers away from crossing over the border of Too Late. "Because you used to be at all of the big parties, didn't you? The most popular escort in Canterlot. You've trotted next to a lot of famous people. Met even more. So tell me something. Did you ever meet him?"
Half of the back cover tore itself off.
Fleur, who knew all about postponing reactions until you found a more private place to have them, focused on the picture.
A unicorn stallion. One who'd just crossed into the senior years, with portions of the mane's unruly black curls lightening into touches of silver. The fur was on the pale side of tan and even for a pony, his snout was exceptionally long -- which let it get out from under the horn: the projection of something other than bone had more extension than the average, and the tip seemed to be designed for careful prodding.
There was a bit of sag to his features. A weathered sort of face: one which didn't start the day with a skincare regimen and it was too late to reverse most of the damage, but she would have been able to advise him on avoiding any more of it. The eyes were brown, warm, and... slightly awkward. The default expression was that of a party guest who'd just accidentally made a minor social error and was deeply wishing that somepony would explain what it was before things got any worse.
He wasn't handsome. The body had no true appeal: lanky, minimal musculature. But there was something... approachable about him. It was a face which wanted somepony to explain and therefore, it was a face which you could speak with. He looked like... a born listener, and the slight forward cup of the ears added to that. Somepony who wanted to know your story.
"No," she truthfully said.
"You're sure," hit the floor, and did so with more weight than the librarian personally possessed.
Fleur instantly felt vaguely insulted. And then she did the practical thing, through taking the 'vaguely' out. "I have a good memory for faces, Twilight. It helped in my profession, when the introductions were flying and I had to remember if I'd first met a pony five parties ago --"
"-- and it also helped," a sudden surge of utter viciousness cut in, "when you were trying to sort out exactly which ponies your talent was letting you extort?"
The immigrant didn't jump backwards. Didn't cower. The elegantly-streaked tail simply swayed, exactly once.
(She did sweat. That was the library. Spike had been sent away, but the heat had stuck around. She could swear her chin was starting to drip.)
"You might," Fleur's lack of decibels informed the very immediate area, "want to check the library before saying things like that. To see who else might be able to hear them. I know it's just you and me right now. I'm not sure you knew. And I never thought you were the kind of pony to just casually kick around national secrets."
She had been an escort.  
One with a truly unique talent. A limited form of empathy, which focused extra power down the narrow channel.   
Fleur knew what ponies liked. Everypony, and everyone. Sexual desires expressed as intangible puzzle pieces. And once she assembled the whole...  
Her beauty had gotten her into the escort business.  
Being an escort had brought her close to the powerful.  
And that proximity, once it detected the kind of embarrassing desires which would have done damage if they'd been made public...
Fleur had been an escort. It had been the fastest route towards becoming a blackmailer.
Then she'd tried to go after the wrong pony. One who'd been afraid of having his asexuality exposed -- but not so much that he couldn't confess what was going on to his truest friend. Who happened to be named Celestia Invictus.
The Protoceran's escort license had been revoked. For starters. And a very odd sort of prison sentence had put her in Ponyville, because there was a pegasus who needed to learn how to date -- it was a long story -- and not only could she teach that, but the mare who understood desire best was clearly the perfect candidate to screen suitors for their motives.
And then there had been the cottage.  
Fluttershy.  
...everything.  
Including -- love.
The other Bearers knew about her talent. Knew about her, or -- thought they did. But Fleur was now a registered resource of Equestria. She had her own missions, and would have given so much to never have another.
The one mare in the world who could just -- know.  
What somepony wanted to do.  
What they'd already done.  
Creating the chance to stop them before it happened again.
She'd blackmailed on Embarrassment and Humiliation.
Celestia, under the ongoing conditions of the pardon, regularly sent Fleur into Nightmare.
"...I'm sorry," Twilight finally voiced.
Are you?
Fleur coolly waited. Or tried to do so. The heat was building up fast under the layers, and she was dreading the moment when saturation was reached.
"I had to know," the alicorn eventually continued. "Because you would have known..."
'There Is No Safe Word'.
I found that one mare...
"Twilight," Fleur carefully said, "what's the article about?"
As the anger began to surge back, "You can read --"
"-- fluently," Fleur agreed. "In more than one language. But there isn't much else on the cover, especially when I'm trying to read words through your corona. All I can make out is something about 'dark secrets' and if it wasn't the Manehattanite, that could mean anything."
Slowly, the librarian nodded.
"You don't know him on sight," she said. "I need to know if you've read his work, or even know his name. Which is Veil Quernstone, since you obviously can't read that through the field border."
Pinkie's recollection for sights and sounds was effectively eidetic. Fleur's wasn't. She searched her memory...
"...books," the former escort finally ventured, "...no. Most of what I get to read these days are veterinary textbooks and articles, Twilight. You know I'm trying to catch up. But the name -- yes." And a little more quickly, "Barely. I heard ponies mentioning it at the Algonquin." The premiere event for Canterlot's literary crowd: wit, wisdom, and wine, with the third somehow never completely managing to destroy first and second. "Something about -- how they hoped he'd show up some year, but he always claimed to have a -- fan event?"
"I suppose," a rising tide of vocal darkness considered, "that would be one way to put it..."
Fleur waited. Nothing else emerged.
"So he's a writer," she tried.
Which got her an almost stoic "Yes."
"Any good?"
With a rather odd vehemence, "'Good' would be too weak a word."
Fleur glanced at what had landed on the Returns cart. The removed texts, forlornly awaiting their fates. "And you're taking down his books."
"From this area. The majority of his early works are in Fantasy and Alternate History. I still have to clean out other sections --"
"-- what," Fleur carefully ventured, "did he do?"
"I'll give you the summary," Twilight stated as the striped tail lashed against the cart. "There is a rapist on my shelves. And I want him gone."
'There Is No Safe Word'.
"Do you need more than that?" felt far too placid.
"I think," Fleur carefully ventured, "I need to read the full article. For context."
"Context," Twilight repeated.
"You're reacting this way because you've read it. I haven't. If you want me to understand --"
"-- if it's context you want?" The corona split, and several books were recovered from the floor. "I'll give you context. And subtext." More slowly, "Oh, yes. I can give you subtext, Fleur. I can give you so much subtext that you might not be able to make out any words through it. Read the article first. Then read some of the stories. I'll bookmark them for you. And when you're done... come find me. I'll wait for that. And then I can -- go back to work."
Purple eyes squinted up at Fleur. Narrowed. And then the librarian sighed.
"After you get undressed," Twilight added. "You're overheating. I can see it. Use the loft."
"Thank you."
"Read on the main level, please."
"Okay."
"Don't touch my personal shelves."
"Twilight --"
"-- and take your time," the alicorn softly said. "Especially when you're going through the stories. I want to make sure you understand."

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                          Context                          
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Context
Fleur got undressed, and was briefly annoyed that the alicorn hadn't stuck around to watch. Ponies had once paid a lot of money to witness Fleur removing clothing -- and, in a society of near-nudists where concealment equaled enticement, would often nose over larger amounts to watch her putting it on.
Most of the layers were folded and placed on the floor. Those which had absorbed the most sweat got a quick scrubbing, followed by setting them out by the fire to dry. And then the Protoceran returned to the main level, chose the largest bench and table from the current selection of All, and settled in to read.
Time travel. The article has to go into the past, because that's where all of the horror is. But it also jumps around a lot. We start with one of the victims (and there are so many more). The author himself doesn't come in for a while. In fact, the first person the featured victim meets is his spouse.
It's... supposedly an open marriage. Those do exist. Not a group marriage: that's legal in Equestria, and you can add members to the miniherd after the initial ceremony -- but every pony in it must agree to the presence of every other, and that's a factor which makes them rare indeed. By contrast, the open marriage is the one where partners don't have to maintain monogamy. You found somepony who was that interesting? Go ahead. Have sex with them. Just make sure the one you married knows about your little adventure, because she's sure going to be telling you about hers. And maybe you'll even share. Some open marriages turn into miniherds.
Most don't.
More than a few won't last.
Also, you get the cheaters who claim everything's fine because the marriage is an open one and you just can't get the direct confirmation from their spouse right now. The former escort's talent is very good at sorting those out.
The article jumps around a lot. Easy enough to track in spite of that: it's well-written. All of the nightmares are delivered with precise timing and measured meter. But the mind wants to organize. And the article starts with one of the victims. The one who eventually talked the most, who fought the hardest to bring it all out.
The story of the future is always about the victims, because they're the ones who have to go on.
But the past begins with the rapist.
Maybe there are monsters which didn't start out that way.
There was a colt once.
He lives in Trottingham and for the whole of his life, every word he speaks will be touched with the charm of that accent. Not that he has a lot of vocabulary yet. He's only five years old. If he's working on stories, then it's probably the kind which kids tell themselves as hooves shove dolls against each other. The child's job is to decide who won the fight, and why. If they're doing it with a friend, then it's figuring out why the other pony's doll lost.
Did the colt have friends? Was he already nosing through age-appropriate books, while beginning to weave his own bright dreams? Because at five, they would have been bright. There are those who say it takes a core of inner darkness to create, and that's an insult to all those who tap the best part of themselves and channel that flow into words. You don't need personal pain and trauma in order to write. You just have to understand it. Basic empathy.
She can't say what the writer was like at that age. All she has is what's in the article. He lives in Trottingham, he still has both parents and when he's five years old, his father joins a cult.
It's not a religion. The immigrant, who tends to see any organization which tells others how to live as attempting to exert control, personally feels the difference can be rather fine. In this case, you still get a book of holy commands. It's just that the party who wrote it is still around and, in the event that anypony starts to question things, can make a few edits.
The cult believes a few things about children. For starters, it says they can manage all of the responsibilities of adults. From the start. There's no excuse for acting like a foal, even if you're a mere four moons removed from being one. And any kid who acts like a kid...
The colt's father rises high in the organization. It doesn't take long before he's in charge of the entire Trottingham cell. And of course, he must be able to show that his son is living by what the cult believes. Acting exactly as it dictates.
Religions. Cults. The former escort sees commonalities. For example, they're both very good at punishment.
One of the recommended methods for dealing with a misbehaving colt is to lock them in a tiny closet.  
For hours.  
Moderate offenses upgrade that to 'days'.  
Advanced disobedience requires running a bath.  
It's advisable not to hold the colt's head under the water for too long. Some things are hard to cover up.
Cry for the colt, if you like. For pain and torture and that which no child should ever experience.
But it's about what the survivor does with the pain. Strike back against those who directly hurt you? That's one thing. Any griffon would understand it, and most would help. When it comes to those who hurt the young, that number turns into 'all'.
But when it comes to targeting anyone else... simply having experienced it? That's not an excuse for lashing out at the world entire. There's nothing approaching a justification here.
It's about what you do with the pain, and the Protoceran found a personal answer to that.
So did the Trottingham native.
It wasn't the same answer.
The colt is gone. Dead, really. (For the former escort, you can say the same thing about the filly.) Passed too soon. Murdered by suffering and the recognition of agony.
This is about the stallion.
The one who took his own screams, and made them erupt from another's throat.
The colt had no control. The stallion seizes it.
The father is still in the cult. At adolescence, the son starts to work for it, and will continue to do so for a few years. But the parent is acquiring too much power within the group. The founder notices and since the most important thing to a cult leader is keeping total control of it, the family is quickly classified as Undesirable and turned out.
The parent, perhaps to his extremely belated and rather pointless credit, seeks therapy.
The son does not.
The featured victim in the article is a lifelong fan of the author. That's why she's so happy to meet his spouse. Why the potential chance to greet the stallion himself feels like a dream.
Her work situation is... poor. Low income, hoping for a better job. Struggling on her own, with family distant or lost, and friends... who knows how to make those? But the author's spouse likes her.
(The spouse has yet to speak on any of this.)  
(It was an open marriage.)  
(There are likely those still arguing that she didn't know.)  
(Perhaps she knew just enough to keep the predator away from her own door.)
A meeting is arranged.
There's this thing about reading. It's not just being told a story. It's an attempt to place yourself within it. To see things through the character's eyes, taking on their life instead of your own.
It's escape.
How did the colt's mark manifest? The Protoceran can't know. Perhaps he started telling himself stories, to pass the time in that lonely closet. But by the time his family is expelled, he has his icon and is well on his way along the career path of -- journalism.
Not what he wants to do. Not truly. But this charming, charismatic young adult talks his way into a position where he's the one who goes out and interviews authors. And that's part of the plan. Meet those who had already broken through. Do all of the research so that they'll know he was a true fan. Smile, laugh, and once the interview is over, keep in touch.
Within the first year, a dozen Names in literature count their interviewer among their friends. That makes it very easy to break through. To get that first job.
In the silliest of places.
A corner of the publishing world which no one respects. The reigning capital of those who just want a few quick bits.
He's about to make it into a recognized center of literature.
Fantasy. Dream to escape from your life. It doesn't actually work, but you can pretend for a while.
He offers a different world to those who can't stand their own. That's going to attract a certain class of readership. Once the writer catches on, this starts to include more of the intellectuals, historians, critics who aren't quite sure they want to believe what's happening and eventually, the notice goes all the way to the top.
But you're also going to get the vulnerable.  
Weak.  
Isolated.  
Because it's a pretty safe bet that if you're turning to books as your source of comfort, you're not in a position where you can do the same thing with ponies.
The lucky ones will find each other. Here's a meet-cute: let's say they try to check out the same library volume. Common interests are discovered, and from there...
Not everypony is lucky.
Magnum modicum.
That's the base term in Protoceran. But if you're going into a griffon bookstore to look for this category of publication, use the shortened form: magmodi.
In Equestrian, call it -- biglittles.
They can potentially be of any genre. Quality level. There's nothing about them which inherently eliminates certain plots. And yet they're seen as something for children. Because the defining feature of a magmodi is they're books which have text on every other page. The others are for illustrations, which generally show you a picture of whatever the text just talked about. Presuming the artist bothered to read it.
Only for the young. Because the art is typically fast quillwork and rough doodles: a magmodi illustrator has to be capable of cranking out thousands of little drawing per year, and the results suffer. Writing tends to be at that quality level where the art is doing most of the work and since the art generally isn't interested in doing any work, just try to imagine where that puts the text.
A magmodi tends to be an extremely thick book: that's the 'big' part of the name. The 'little' is for the typical quality. And don't get caught reading any once you reach secondary school. Not in public.
Except... the magmodi isn't the story.
It's the medium.
The story...
The spouse introduces the victim to the rapist.
The author has a warm smile. A charming voice. And the victim is a fan. She can't believe that she's talking with somepony whom she's spent much of her life admiring. The one who took her away from every trouble, at least for a time.
They talk. He smiles. And over the course of what feels like a perfectly normal conversation, he carefully learns that she's far from home. Can't really contact her family. She's on the shy side and doesn't make connections easily. Reluctant to speak unless it's with someone she already knows, and she certainly feels she knows him! She says that part directly, and they both laugh.
She's... isolated.
She doesn't have friends.
But maybe she has one now.
He helped her through so much. And now he's offering to do it again. Only instead of words, it's going to be bits.
A job. More money than she's making now. She can start to build up savings. She won't even have to pay rent any more: just live in the guest house. Some light cooking, cleaning, running errands, doing the favors for the spouse which the victim was already doing anyway...
(Like the favor of not being the primary target?)
...and looking after the kids now and again, as the couple has children.
It's a dream.
So of course she says yes.
What's the story about?
It's a dream.
Imagine that certain aspects of sapient life exist separately from the living. Those who exist as thinking, feeling, somewhat alien incarnations of concepts, embodied as solid spirits. Beings which are eternal, endless, and unchanging.
In fact, if they change too much... if they try to depart from what the universe told them to be...
...incarnation. The original series will follow the final years leading into the death of the one who incarnates creativity. Dreaming, if you like. And yes, they can die. Ageless and endless... but any could be struck down, if you had the power. (Few do.) This kills the incarnation, but not the concept. Creativity continues to exist, and so a new spirit will form. But the one who was lost will be truly gone.
They can all die. And as in so much of life, the greatest risk to their existence is the rest of the family.
Seven of the most powerful are... related. And some of them don't like each other very much.
An incarnation of creativity sits with a rather small, exceptionally slender mare, who's pale-furred and smiling and friendly and happy to meet everyone in the world. She also happens to embody the shadowlands and the passage into the place beyond mortal existence. Death has a face, and it wishes to comfort all those who see it. And there's an incarnation of destruction. (That's a yak. What else would you use?) Of personal agonies and the power of want and madness and a future which can't be changed. Those are the siblings. The spirit who embodies want mostly wants to see all of the others dancing to a tune of that one's composition.
Call it a family drama. But it's also one where the author has put in the research. The main character has been present for all of recorded history, and so a story can be set anywhen. The Protoceran recognizes a number of background personalities, and suspects most of the pony readers felt the writer was making up everything. The default Equestrian approach to history often breaks down to 'Celestia exists, and we'll worry about anything else when it bites us in the ass.'
It's still a magmodi, though. So every other page is an illustration. And what the author did was commission artists. A new one for each volume. Thousands of little paintings. Detailed and, once the books made enough money for a better printing, colorful.
Every book is a gallery. It's... beautiful.
So much of the art is incredible.
Quite a bit of the writing is better.
The newest victim moves in.
She has no friends outside of the rapist's spouse, and that party isn't speaking with her as much now. (Eventually, that stops entirely.)
She doesn't get a lot of time off the property. Hardly any, really.
She is isolated and completely reliant on her new employer for housing, food, and income. The income is currently late, but take him away from the focusing act of writing and he's a little on the absent-minded side. He'll catch up.
The estate is large, for the writer has become rather wealthy. There's a private bath in the gardens. She has full access to it and one day, she decides to try it out.
The writer trots in on her. And for ponies, washing up can be a social thing -- but she doesn't know him that well. She's a little embarrassed when he tries to join her in the small pool. He points out that it's an open marriage and if each partner is comfortable with the other having sex outside of the union, then some casual splashing doesn't even need to be reported. And she gets that, but she was washing up alone and --
-- he's in the pool now.
She... doesn't feel like that's right.
He wants to make some small talk. He asks if she's ever heard of something called BDSM. She hasn't. He starts to explain.
...all right. She knows he's done a lot of research for stories. He'll be writing about this soon, if he hasn't already. But he's watching her eyes as he speaks, and -- she doesn't know what he's looking for. Just that the observation is becoming more and more intense, she doesn't like this subject, she's not interested in any of the described acts, she tries to change the subject several times as he drifts closer across the water, she's about to ask him to leave and then his horn ignites.
The corona surrounds her jaw. Clamps it shut.
Then it starts to pry her buttocks apart.
The incarnations are powerful. Still, it's possible for a mortal to hurt one. To defy. And should that mortal do actual harm -- bring an end to the endless -- then they will suffer for eternity. And beyond. That punishment is built into the very universe. Good luck finding a higher court for appeals.
But that's happened -- once? And beyond that... they can generally do whatever they like. The only controls on them are esoteric cosmic laws which few understand, and -- each other. Otherwise, they're unstoppable.
They exist beyond frailty.
Beyond consequence.
He rapes her.
He talks to her during the violation. About how he was told that he couldn't have her, not within the open marriage. And that just made him want her all the more.
Also, there's a spell on her now. Something unique to him. It detects when she's trying to tell anypony about what happened, and... well, she won't last long enough to finish the first sentence.
He rapes her until he's satisfied, then tells her that he's already decided to do it again. She's fun.
He orders her to call him Master.
Why doesn't she run?
It's an easy question to ask. The answer just has a couple of requirements, starting with a place of safety to reach. The pay required to escape by train still isn't coming. In that sense, the rapist controls just about every way off the estate. And the victim is in shock. There's a sort of emotional numbness which can completely take over...
...why didn't she run?
It's easy to tell yourself that you would have run. Struck back. But unicorns... the magical abilities of all but one sapient species are known and fully defined. Unicorns are the wild cards. Any working. Any effect. Unless you know a given unicorn well enough to have their full casting list, you can never be sure. The victim was just raped. Now she's been told there's an invisible axe made of spellwork hanging over her neck, and the only way to test whether it's real is...
Fear compounds on fear.
The books... catch on.
Call it the power of friendship. It's hard to call it anything else. The writer has so many among the published ranks who count him as exactly that: a friend. Obviously you're going to do what you can to promote a friend's work, and it doesn't exactly hurt when the work is brilliant. The hardest part is convincing people -- very much including the critics -- that it's now okay to be seen with a magmodi. In pubic. But the magmodi is just the medium, and the stories...
...once you start reading the stories...
The characters are flawed. The best ones sort of have to be. Reading about the perfect gets boring.
The most relatable one in the group is the incarnation of shadowlands passage. A real people person. She goes out and meets everyone. Once each.
She's the most powerful of them, because even the eternal can die. And she's small and thin and pale and looks like she could be taken out by a strong breeze. Appearances are deceiving that way.
(The body type...)
The characters are flawed.
The writer...
There's nowhere else for the victim to go.
There are more rapes.
At one point, he slams her down in the kitchen, while the children are just a few rooms away. He doesn't do it directly in front of them, though. If they're in the room, he just rubs up against her. Directly in youthful view.
The oldest colt begins to address her as Slave.
Ultimately, you could say the master arc of the original ten books is about change. The main character recognizes his flaws and has to deal with them. Common enough in literature.
Except he doesn't.
He can only change so much. And when he starts to go against his own nature, when he discovers little things like mercy and empathy... that is when the consequences begin.
How does the spirit of creativity die? He tries to be a better person. That means doing something vicious and cruel and...
...and...
my sister
...something griffons would understand.
Mercy.
Release.
(The Protoceran doesn't move for three minutes.)  
(Breathing resumes after a mere one.)
And that's why he dies.
His base nature is to be cold. Distant. Detached and uncaring. Once he starts to come closer to warmth, a little of the facade melts. And what's underneath is too soft to survive.
There are two choices. Finishing changing, and see if that takes the form of something which can get through the storm unleashed by the so-called sin of empathy -- or die.
He presses a forehoof against that of his oldest sister and in doing so, chooses death over change.
And then, in what might be the strongest sign that the author was a pony, it's all someone else's problem.
The rapes are more violent now. He'll kick her a few times while he's clamping her mouth shut. Sometimes the edges of hooves get shoved into other places. The bleeding doesn't stop for a while.
One of the violations makes her vomit.   
He forces her to eat the steaming mass off the floor.   
Some of it splashed onto him. She has to swallow that back too.
The former escort reads the article, all the way through.
She also reads every story which the librarian bookmarked for her, and a few more. (It's magmodi. Even the best ones don't take that long to finish.)
Two of them stand out.
The victim spirals.  
She considers suicide.  
She comes close, over and over again.  
She's trembling in bed one night, wondering if this is the first time she'll sleep alone in a week. Or sleep at all. And in her terror...
"He raped me."
A whisper, if you want to elevate it that far. In the article, it's remembered as more of a squeak.
And nothing happens.
...the fatal spell was supposed to activate if she ever told anypony. By any means. Vocal, written, the ear-and-tail movements of sign language if she knew them...
...maybe it doesn't count if she's just talking to herself...
"He raped me."
No sparkle. No corona. No glow. No consequences.
Well -- what if she yelled it loudly enough to reach the main house? Let the spouse (who won't acknowledge her any more) hear that. Then again, maybe it only kicks in if she's telling somepony who doesn't already know.
Obviously no point in telling the children.
...she wants to die.
If the spell triggers, she'll die.
...is there a spell at all? Or did he just produce glow while telling her that a spell existed?
...it doesn't matter.
She wants to die.
So if she can get off the property, then runs all the way to town, gallops into the police station, talks as fast as she can before it takes effect... wouldn't a mare dropping dead in the center of the precinct house have to be something worth investigating? All she needs to do is get out his name, and the rest...
...and if the working wasn't real...
She gets out of bed.  
No packing. There's no point.  
She's still alive an hour later when she races into the station and begs to speak with an officer.  
The same holds true by the next morning. That's when she's telling the truth for the fifth time, only it's in front of the judge who's about to sign the search warrant.
She talks, over and over. The denials from the writer's estate begin immediately: lies, jilted lover trying to ruin a sterling reputation, blackmail. But the investigation is ongoing, and word is spreading.
Then it starts to echo.
Another mare steps forward. Speaks.  
Then another.  
Another.  
Another.  
Another.  
Another...
Two stories in the catalog stand out to the former escort. One is about rape.
There's a writer. A fictional one, this time. (Writers tend to create authors as characters: record what you know, after all.) He's had a fairly successful debut novel, but he's utterly stuck for a followup. Completely blocked. The publisher's advance payment is running out and without pages to deliver, money and career both stop.
He follows a trail of rumor to another author's house. A very old stallion, on the verge of death. One who wants to pass his legacy on.
The legacy is the incarnation which he keeps imprisoned in his basement.
One of the weaker ones. You could even call her a sub-aspect for the incarnation of dreams, who's sometimes called the Prince Of Stories. This spirit focuses more on -- writing. Stage plays, mostly, because that's what was most popular when she took her current form. But anything to do with the recording of words. And the old pony transfers custody to the younger one because the lie about freeing her upon his death was exactly that, and the newer author takes the spirit home, finds a place to imprison her, and...
You can't force an idea.
In the story, forcing one out of a muse via the medium of raping her turns out to be a viable strategy.
(Record what you know.)
He cleans himself off. Then he starts writing. The publisher has forty pages after two days, four hundred after two weeks, and then the bestseller rankings have a new permanent resident.
The younger writer continues the routine. (The older one commits suicide.) He rapes. He writes. Ponies ask where he gets ideas, because every writer gets that question and he's not going to give them a straight answer --
-- the muse, even as a separate entity, could be considered as a sub-aspect of the dream spirit. Eventually, she manages to get a message through to him. And an entity which is slowly learning about mercy (which is something which only makes you weak enough to be slain) comes to rescue her.
The writer begs for that mercy. But the incarnation only came for the muse. And this was about ideas. He couldn't have one on his own...
The incarnation of dream gives him... a gift.
The gift of concept.
...and there's a continent on the other side of the world which you can only reach by sailing through the center -- no, the stars, it's known that every star is a Sun and if that's so, someone's moving every last one of them, so this is the school which finds and teaches sapients how to do that... wait: what about a consortium of anti-geniuses? Those who are themselves intelligent, but dedicated to stamping it out in the populace so that they're the only ones...
...the writer is having ideas. One after the other, too quickly to record. And he runs out of paper. Then he runs out of ink.
Then it occurs to him that hooves can be used to scrape lines into paint.  
And wood.   
And stone.  
By the time he's found, the problem of not having ink has been solved.   
Ponies who grind away all of their keratin can always use their own free-flowing blood.
A tale of a writer, rapist, and revenge.
At the very end of the full arc, in the tenth book, when the incarnation dies... the effect ends.
The writer, who was simply assumed to be insane (because nopony believes in spirits), is released from the asylum.
Back to their life.
So much for consequences.
Another.  
Another...
...the Protoceran immigrant pauses. Searches through dust jackets until she finds another picture of the writer. One which shows the mark --
-- a quill with bright sparkles surrounding it. Typical author icon. Of course, a lot of that is subject to how the pony interprets it, but -- she's seen the stories now. The products of a remarkable talent for creation.
She needed to check because up until she got a direct look, there was a chance that it was a mark for finding the perfect victims.
Except that... he didn't have to find them.
They came to him.
He gave them another world. Something they could use to escape their own.  
Made himself accessible. So many fan events. Lecture tours. Always happy to speak with a reader.  
A soft, charmingly-accented voice and ears which told everypony that he wanted to hear their story.
His audience spreads. The books effectively go mainstream. Magmodi attract better writers and artists. Still more is being done with the medium. Nominations come in for major awards. This is followed by wins.
But there's still that core segment in the readership.
The vulnerable.  
Desperate.  
Weak.  
Isolated.
They come to him. And he'll always spare a few minutes.
To be more precise about it, he listens to their tales until he knows exactly which ones can be cut off from the real world. Those who will believe just a few more stories, like the ones about how the spell against talking works. After all, they've been carrying and trusting his words for a lifetime. Why not take in a few more?
A perfect feeder system.  
But it still takes an incredible amount of luck to maintain.  
And luck always runs out.
Another mare steps forward to testify.  
Another.  
Another.  
Another...
This is the second story which stood out to the immigrant. Or rather, a character within that story. One who only appears in a single arc within the larger tale, and never again.
There's this yak.
...okay, if you want to get all biological about it, there's a pony. But the heart -- the soul is that of a yak. This is a pony who realized she was a yak fairly late in life and then -- this is the amazing part -- openly announced to the world that she was a yak. She dressed as a yak, acted as a yak, and lived as a yak. An existence centered on destruction, because that was the yak domain for magic -- but what Ванда broke was expectations. Barriers. She tried to shatter the walls which were built in sapient minds simply through existing.
She told the world that she was a yak. Expected to be treated as one -- no, demanded it. And she was a great friend who had more courage than any three other ponies because to live as a yak was to get laughed at by the whole of Canterlot as a clown. And she didn't care. Because a yak wouldn't.
The current reader of that story -- a griffon trapped forever as a unicorn, who could make her heart and soul match the majority population of her birth nation, but never her body...
...the former escort understood.  
She cared.  
There was a moment when she felt -- seen.
Just about nopony understood what it was like, not in Equestria. How could they? And this writer had simply taken the concept of 'the right soul in the wrong body' and -- brought it to the world. Made it so that ponies could understand somepony -- someone -- like that could exist. Deserved to exist. Deserved honor and respect and -- love. She wasn't sure any local author had ever done that...
Then she thought about the article.
She kept reading.
Ванда. A great character. There's one point where most of the group has to go on a journey through mystical realms, but she has to stay behind because the portal to those realms has rules about who can enter. It'll take a yak. But it wants a yak who's a yak right down to the blood. She can't go.
So she tells off the portal.   
The rules.   
The fundamentals of the universe, which are inherently unfair and thus need the occasional kick to the face.   
She's a yak, and nothing can tell her she isn't.   
She knows what her soul is.   
Everyone does. And for that matter, everypony should.
...everypony who speaks to her. For a physical mare who does her mane in yak styles, dresses in yak clothing and talks with the distinctive rearrangement of sentence clauses while insisting she's a yak... that isn't a lot of ponies.
She still insists on her truth, in the face of something so much stronger. Lives it.
Amazing character.
She dies.
It can almost feel random, if you didn't know it was part of a script. She has to stay behind. So she remains near the portal, waiting for her friends to return. Something happens, and the room collapses.
Buried alive. Crushed.
She's not the main character for that story. And when the tale ends...
There is a mortal main character in this section. (Vapid at first, initially surviving on her own beauty and the way others react to it. The former escort isn't overly fond of that one.) She has a dream after Ванда dies, heavily implied to be a true one. And she sees the incarnation of shadowlands passage bringing her friend into the final pasture.
Or rather, it takes a split-second to recognize Ванда. The smiling spirit of transition is trotting next to the prettiest yak ever rendered in a magmodi. The way Ванда had always seen herself. The ideal dri. An illustration of... a soul.
Honor. Respect. Acknowledgement.
Except.
There is no rape in this particular story. Just someone (not somepony: someone) who had told off a entity which was infinitely stronger than she could ever be. Who had spoken defiance to power, saying the question of identity could only have a personal answer. Ultimately, it was her choice.
Brave words.  
Inspirational.  
Something a reader could carry for a lifetime.
And then the mare had died. Buried in rubble, without chance or hope. Crushed.
Defiance has to be punished.
The title of the story arc in which Ванда appears is A Game Of Thee.
It's all just a game for the writer, isn't it?
Create.  
Manipulate.  
Destroy.  
...violate...
Every mare the author raped was a fan of his work. That was the first link. Their social situations formed a second.
The article's featured victim has a certain body type.
They all do.

//-------------------------------------------------------//
                       Circumscribed                       
//-------------------------------------------------------//
Circumscribed
It didn't take long to find Twilight. She was in the same section of the library. Sitting, with her hindquarters on the floor. Perhaps she'd moved around during the reading time, but she was back there now. Simply... waiting.
The Protoceran approached in silence. Her field lowered magazine and books, put them with the others. And then she sat down, a short distance away on Twilight's left. Enough distance to avoid accidental contact. The librarian wasn't always good with that.
Neither mare looked at the other. Both were quiet for a time. And the books, still resting upon the Returns cart, were filled with words... but couldn't speak for themselves.
Or perhaps they already had.
"I met him once."
The alicorn's words had been soft. Steady. The kind of steadiness where every syllable had been measured off against every other. A sentence which had been sealed before release, to make sure no part of the confined scream leaked out.
Fleur's head completely failed to turn slowly towards the left, nor did she tilt her gaze down in that general direction. She simply waited. Because the Protoceran had been both an escort and a blackmailer. Two occupations which really didn't have much in common (beyond the rather obvious 'screwing ponies over' jokes) -- but there was a single link. When somepony wanted to talk... it was generally best to --
"-- Fleur?"
Of course, that usually applies when you aren't dealing with somepony who's still sending years' worth of catch-up basic social lessons to the palace. One scroll at a time.
"What?" was addressed to the air.
"I thought you'd say something about that," Twilight's lowered gaze effectively told the floor.
"I was trying to let you talk," the former escort said.
"...oh."
The background heat level in the tree picked up an extra half-degree.
"Where?" Fleur finally asked.
The sigh was equally soft.
"At a theater. Years ago. It -- wasn't for long..." The slender rib cage reluctantly shifted across the course of a slow, pained breath, and feathers rustled. "I -- had been hoping it would be for longer..."
Fleur pictured the meeting.  
Then she revised the image, because she'd only known Twilight as an alicorn. It took a little mental work to remove the wings, followed by placing her in front of the author --   
-- oh no.
"I still have trouble explaining what it was like to the others," Twilight slowly continued. "Some of the things which came from being her student. One of them was -- standing at her side. During introductions, and ... so I could be introduced." The snort barely had the strength to ripple two strands of fur. "All things considered, I really should have seen the whole Gala thing coming. I just thought that with a party, it would be... different. Especially since it's mostly a dance..."
I've heard a few stories by now, Fleur's mind almost randomly pushed out. She may have been trying to safeguard the world. By keeping you off the dance floor.
But that was an attempt at self-distraction, and the odd touch of chill which had just started spreading outwards from her own sternum suggested it had failed.
"She always wanted me to meet people. Not just ponies: people. There were always a lot of ponies, because..." Another sigh. "Palace. Canterlot. Equestria..."
"I think," Fleur carefully advanced words into steaming air, "I know something about the local population breakdown." About two percent of Equestrian citizens were something other than ponies, and -- that was it. A number which felt unlikely to change and when compared to Protocera's mixing, it was shameful.
"But there were ambassadors," the librarian went on. "Staff members from Embassy Row. Anyone from the other nations."
"Making sure you were familiar with the power brokers of the world," Fleur decided.
She risked a glance down, and so got to see Twilight's lips briefly quirk.
"Actually," the alicorn's dark bemusement said, "I think she was just trying to get me to be more -- social. And she wanted me to see that people came in all sorts of shapes. Species. But it was usually boring. Something I tried to get out of, or get over with. So I could get back to what I thought the real lessons were. And besides, most of the people she wanted me to meet were just so boring. There weren't any shared interests. I didn't want to speak with them, because... what were they going to tell me? About dumb things, like their jobs and families and lives and..."
Stopped, and purple eyes briefly closed with shame.
"...the sooner it was over... the sooner she might teach me about magic again," the pained memories offered. And the tail twisted against itself.
"We've probably met a lot of the same people," Fleur tried. Moving in the highest of social circles. Both from what was claimed to be the duty of the job, while each had been making -- other plans. "A lot of them are pretty boring --"
"-- you've heard of the Lascaux Center Honors?" Which was almost immediately followed by "You probably haven't, since you aren't from Eques --"
"-- the highest award Equestria can grant anypony in the creative fields," Fleur quietly said. "Every kind of artist. Musicians. Performers."
Writers. The others get their greatest works performed -- or do it themselves, if they're up to it. Writers usually get quick little plays of their best-known scenes. Sometimes the performers being honored will take the lead parts.  
Celestia places the medal around every honoree's neck. Personally, on the main stage.   
While bending her forelegs to each in turn.
"How did --" and then the librarian winced. "-- you've... been to the Honors."
"Twice."
"As part of the audience," Twilight unnecessarily added. "While escorting clients."
"Still twice." And in an auditorium that crowded, she'd turned her talent off to prevent sensory overwhelm -- but it wouldn't have mattered, as she'd been there years after Twilight's meeting. "If it helps any, I -- don't think I'm getting back in any time soon."
She was still a student.  
Maybe she hadn't even graduated from the Gifted School yet.
"And even with the Honors..." Twilight's head slowly shook, and the mane stripe lost a little cohesion along the borders. "I didn't listen to a lot of music, I didn't go to much for plays or cinema... I got kicked out of one place because I -- started talking about how the featured spell just didn't work that way... and..." This snort was even softer. "...I don't know. Maybe Fluttershy's told you about why I wouldn't exactly be able to have long talks with choreographers, and maybe she hasn't. But this was a writer. When she told me that he was one of the honorees... it was just about the only time I ever wanted to be part of the greeting line. Somepony I actually knew of..."
Another stop, and the twisted tail lashed.
"No," the alicorn's rising anger self-corrected. "Somepony I respected."
"How much time did you have together?" Because there were times when you had to say something. Even when words did no good.
"Less than two minutes," the alicorn admitted. "The Princess greeted him first, of course. Thanked him for... everything. Everything he'd... done. She thanked him. For all of it."
There was a single moment where Fleur wondered how Celestia was taking the news.
She's half of the executive branch for a nation. She deals with monsters all the time. And for that matter, Fleur doubted it was possible to maintain solitary control of a realm for a thousand years without occasionally resorting to light touches of monstrosity. Or, as it was more commonly known, realpolitik.
"For writing --" Fleur began.
"I know," had nearly been spat. "That's what she meant, Fleur: I know that. But it's like the stories. No matter what was there originally, even when I know there's no underlying meaning at all -- it all gets reframed. She thanked him. Then she introduced me, as her personal student. And I pressed my right forehoof against his left. I... told him that the true honor on that night was just getting to meet him. And I told him what my favorite story was. The one about the stallion who thought he was a Princess, the real Princess, the true ruler of Equestria when somepony else was just managing Sun and Moon. And then he just -- acted like he thought a Princess should for the rest of his life. Gracious. Kind and honest and... the virtues, all of the virtues, but with none of the throne's power behind them..."
The Protoceran waited.
"And the Princess -- she was still right next to me -- had this sad look. She said... that the stallion had been real. She'd known of him, out by San Dineighgo. That she'd left him alone, because... he did no harm. Because his life had done so much for everypony around him, just from showing people what a life could be if you tried to embody everything good. She was just glad... somepony had remembered him. Honored him. And Quernstone said he'd always been interested in history, I'd seen so much of that in his stories but I hadn't known that stallion was real, and I just wanted to talk to him for the rest of the night. Talking about what had been, when... so few ponies care about the past. Still, Fleur. Maybe always. And he was..."
The alicorn was small. One of the smallest adult mares Fleur had ever seen. And at the instant she stopped, marshaled the strength necessary to finish... Twilight's little body seemed to partially collapse in on itself. Becoming smaller still.
"...looking at me."
Slowly, the librarian's head came up. Tilting along the way, until eye contact was made.
"You understand sex better than anypony I know," said the ghostly voice of a thwarted future. "There's a lot of reasons why it's hard to speak with you, Fleur. That's one of them. You're the expert, and I'm -- me."
You're an alicorn.  
'Alicorn fetish' is a known thing. Even when most ponies use it as a shorthoof catchall term for wanting what you can never have, some are looking for horn and wings. There are four possible candidates for that attraction. Two are off the market, one is married, and you are here.  
You could have all the sex you ever wanted if you could just get past yourself --
-- but that wasn't the topic.
"You understand sex. Sexual attraction, because that's your talent," Twilight's too-soft voice added. "Knowing what everypony wants, and everyone. I don't. But I've been thinking. About how he was looking at me, with those bright happy eyes which were just thrilled to meet a true reader. And you read the article. What do you think he was looking for?"
And without another word, the little body collapsed onto the floor. Curled up against itself in a tight knot of life, and shivered. Trying to drive away a level of cold which no fire could touch.
Fleur... didn't know what to do.   
Say.   
Anything.
Because she'd read the article.
Small.  
Slender.  
Weak.  
Almost completely socially isolated...
...which was where it had all fallen apart.
"And you never saw him again," said the griffon in a unicorn's body.
"Oh, I saw him," drifted up a weak, bitter voice. "I was in the Princess Box with her. He had the Tier Circle. You've been in the Center, so you've seen where they both are. Honoree section, and where royalty sits. The honorees get a better view. So I could look at him any time I liked. And I was thinking about trying to go up to him at the afterparty, talk about the stories a little more and find out how many others had been based in history -- but it was so busy back there, I was being introduced to ponies who'd just turned up to watch and -- he left early. I actually saw him slip out. And I thought... well, that's something else we have in common. Neither of us really wants to be stuck in a stupid crowd for very long..."
The curl became tighter.
Fleur looked down at the small form. Took a slow breath, and spoke.
"She saved you."
(Although there was an argument to be made that it had also saved the writer. Fleur was now in reluctant custody of multiple mental images. All of them featured likely responses from Twilight to being sexually assaulted, and most ended with oddly-dense, fluid-leaking marbles. But Fleur didn't know if the mare was capable of seeing that...)
Perhaps the response should have been expected. They didn't know each other very well. They weren't friends, and perhaps would never be. The former escort suspected that the main reason Twilight was speaking to her about this was due to the total lack of Anypony Else.
When it came to the Bearers, Fleur's presence was... accepted. She was accepted because Fluttershy had accepted her. And Rainbow was her friend, Rarity still felt that she owed the Protoceran a favor which could never be truly repaid and the debt came with the name 'Sweetie Belle' attached, Fluttershy loved her...
...Twilight... wasn't comfortable around Fleur. A mare who avoided sexual interaction, and the one who might understand it better than anypony on the continent.
And Twilight knew about Fleur's talent.  
Knew what Fleur had done.   
National secrets, in the custody of a mare who frequently worked to protect that nation.
They... really didn't have a lot in common. And what knowledge existed was a blockade to true connection.
"'She'," Twilight slowly said, while largely addressing the underside of a half-tucked wing. "You're not a writer, Fleur, and I still feel like reading isn't your first thing for entertainment. So I don't think you know how annoying excessive pronoun use can get. Especially when I read the article before you did, and I'm almost certain I didn't see a timeline. But I did see the pattern. All of it. Fans who admired his work and were hoping to make a more personal connection. A certain body type among those fans. The one which most reflected the one which he'd given to his pony incarnation of passage into the shadowlands."
The Protoceran silently nodded.
"So help me out," the too-dry voice wrapped up into twitching feathers. "With a name. Which mare was he repeatedly raping at that exact time? Because that's what, or rather who, kept him from doing it to me --"
Fleur didn't know Twilight very well. But you didn't have to be around the librarian for very long before recognizing that one of her default responses to fear was to turn darkly sarcastic.
"-- Celestia."
Slowly, oh so slowly, Twilight's head came up. The body remained curled.
"There's this rumor," the librarian said. "About the Princess, and -- heat. Not estrus."
"Ponies don't go through --" Fleur automatically began to teach Ponyville's Most Overconfirmed Virgin, because there was every chance Twilight had missed that.
"-- I know. Thermal heat, Fleur. That she can generate it. Not redirect or relocate, like when pegasi shift temperatures, with a cold spot to balance every hot one. Generate. To whatever intensity she wants, from anywhere she likes. And I usually try to avoid confirming or denying anything about the sisters, but... I'm sure that was the first time they ever met, she's about six times bigger than anypony else he ever hurt, and I can tell you this, Fleur: any stallion who tried to rape Princess Celestia?"
The small mare was getting louder. More insistent, as the tones darkened into the weighted registers of vengeance.
"I know you've seen people from the other species at parties," the alicorn stated. "Have you ever spotted a minotaur with a cigar? Then just picture a red-hot cylinder. Which falls into ash. That's what would happen to anypony who tried to rape her. There wouldn't even be any blood, because that would just vaporize. And as a special bonus --" the sarcasm was now delving for the heart of the graveyard, trying to dig up humor "-- the wound gets cauterized on the spot! Now, with Princess Luna... opposite thermal effect. So that would be more of a shattering --"
"-- he went after the isolated," Fleur quietly cut in. "Mares who didn't have anypony else in their lives." Ponies without... friends... "Nopony they could speak with or tell. Certainly nopony who would take their word over that of a famous author, and you saw the bluffs with the supposed spell. But you... had her."
Silence. The librarian's head went down again, and the little body curled up that much tighter.
"I won't lie to you, Twilight," the former escort softly said. "Not about this. Because we both read the article. He had all of those incarnations, didn't he? Of dreams, of desire, of destruction and despair and -- death. The shadowlands. He made the shadowlands transition into this thin, completely unintimidating little mare -- physically, anyway -- whom anypony would greet with a smile, and -- then he went on the hunt. Looking for anypony who resembled that, so he could -- conquer her. Conquer death. And he got away with it, over and over. Because they wouldn't talk. And maybe some of them tried before the last, but if they did -- it wasn't to the right ponies, or nopony believed them for a long time. They weren't close enough to anypony to be trusted first."
"...and... me?" the whisper asked a wing.
"She introduced you as her personal student," Fleur stated. "That's when he knew you had somewhere to go. I don't doubt he was interested in you, Twilight." Which would do nothing to ward off the nightmares -- but at least for a little while, she'd effectively promised not to lie. "But the one thing a monster will always prioritize over all else is its own safety. He was looking for prey, he saw something more dangerous than he could ever be -- and he backed off."
And maybe he went to whoever he had and raped them that night, because he couldn't have you.  
Maybe he hunted for somepony who looked a lot like you.  
Or if it had been too long since the last rape, he might have tried to get you away from her anyway. Cut off, isolate, make you reliant on him, and then...
Monsters would prioritize for self-preservation. But they generally didn't have a lot in the way of self-control.
She didn't tell Twilight that, any more than she described the images which had just been shoved into the swamps of her own subconscious. One of the first lessons she'd had picked up from Applejack was that honesty didn't mean you had to say everything. Twilight had been safe on that night... but Fleur had no ability to peer into a future which had never happened.
The little body began to straighten.
"And what am I supposed to do with the books?" Twilight asked. "What are any of us supposed to do? Everypony who loved his writing. I thought... he built a mystical realm on top of our own. A palace made of words. But it's just sand. The truth flows in and washes it away. And when you loved the stories..."
The alicorn's horn ignited. Small sparks began to fly.
"...when you loved the writer for the stories --"
"STOP."
Twilight's entire form went straight. Wings slammed tight against her sides. Forehooves knocked against each other, and the corona winked out.
"Stop," Fleur repeated at somewhat lower volume. "Twilight -- stop."
"I know you've been in the Solar throne room," the alicorn forced out as deflection mode was almost visibly engaged. "I guess she's yelled at you at least once, hasn't she? Because that's a pretty good Canterlot Royal Voice. Maybe it's because you're so tall. Larger torso. More space inside. Most ponies can't get the lungpower --"
"-- stop," the immigrant tried. "Please."
The native blinked.
"You don't usually don't say --"
"Don't confuse the creation with the creator," Fleur said. "You only loved one. You read the stories, and you came up with an image of the kind of stallion whom you believed should be writing them. Somepony who was kind. Understanding. If there was any love, then it bounced off the pages and landed on a mirage. You never knew him. I..."
there is a runaway filly on the couch of the stallion who's been providing her with tutoring in magic and he's touching her in ways she doesn't understand and she's scared and her sister just died and she
in that single moment  
more than anything else in the world  
she needs to know what he wants
and then she knows
the stallion loses an eye to her horn  
the filly runs again  
eventually, she runs from her own nation  
but it doesn't change mark or talent, the piercing insight of the triple acies symbol  
and for the rest of her life, she will always know  
always
"Fleur?" (Who didn't understand the sudden note of concern.) "You just went quiet --"
"-- I think the only ones who really knew him were his victims," the former escort finished. "I can't make myself count his spouse yet. Not when I know the courts are going to be trying to figure out how much she was really involved." With a soft sigh, "And then there's the kids. There is nothing in that article about whether somepony's gotten them out of there. They're already victims. Even if they were never touched, they have to unlearn everything. Because if they don't..."
"I..." Twilight swallowed. "I didn't think about that. The only thing they know..."
Fleur silently nodded. Gave Twilight a moment, and then resumed. "We both read the article. Some of them... are very good at keeping the mask on. It mostly slips when it's around what they want. His friends said they never saw any signs of it? Because he didn't have friends whom he wanted to rape." With an open wince which disrupted far too much of her makeup, "...all right, I know that came out wrong." Equestrian wasn't her primary language. "I mean he divided the world into those he could use for different things. Some became people he could use for fame and advancement and prestige. The article said he was really good at getting popular writers to like him. He had one group which he used for that, and -- then he found the ones which he used for everything else. Maybe he thought of some of those in the first group as friends." With a soft snort, "He's a writer. I'm sure that personal lie came with a few internal chapters of backing. But he was mostly 'friends' with stallions. Any mares weren't his target type. He never let himself be in that position. He controlled the topics and the interactions. He -- tried to control everything. It's what they do --"
"-- we both read the article."
"I promise I read it all the way through," Fleur said. Surely Twilight wasn't going to try for an 'escorts can read?' routine --
-- which was when the alicorn's eyes went white.
It happened all at once. There had been purple blinking away vestiges of tears -- and then Twilight's head had come all the way up, her eyes were white and blazing with light and the fury in that voice was something which told Fleur's instincts to pull back, to run for the door before that light moved to Magic's horn, but she was a Protoceran and her instincts could frankly buck all the way off --
"Did you happen to read the part where he raped that one small, skinny, isolated mare through her anus and then forced her to lick her own bucking shit off his penis, Fleur? Does that ring any bells? There are books written by a MONSTER on that cart and I've got this place nice and hot for Spike, I just happen to have a FIRE going and if I had whatever it is that calls itself ' Veil Quernstone' in here, I'm pretty sure I could just start folding parts until he could go in right after them -- !!!"
There was a lot to unpack in that, and not the least of it was the fact that if the need was there, Twilight Sparkle was fully capable of swapping out 'horse apples' for 'shit'.
(Also, a mare who couldn't watch Fleur and Fluttershy nuzzle for more than three seconds before the blush took over had just said 'penis'. Fleur hadn't been sure Twilight knew the word.)
But if the rage reached the horn, then Fleur didn't have the magical strength to counter the alicorn, and there was no way to talk down somepony who was this angry --
-- Fleur's horn ignited, and did so as long legs began to straighten. Getting ready to dive for cover.
Her field projection curved as it moved, largely staying out of blazing vision and going directly over Twilight's back --
"-- OW!"
Fleur was already halfway to the first bookcase. Prepared to go behind it, for as many seconds as that might buy her --
-- the white light vanished. Twilight Sparkle blinked.
"...you yanked my tail," the little mare almost placidly said.
Fleur still finished the dive behind the bookcase. You couldn't just tell joints to cancel all momentum in mid-motion.
After a few seconds, pale violet eyes peeked around the edge.
"I had to get your attention," Fleur said.
"I think," the alicorn muttered, "you got about five hairs. Maybe seven."
The slim right foreleg came up. The hoof touched the sternum, and then -- jerked outwards. A process which repeated several times, as the librarian forced her breathing to slow. Fleur was presuming a stress exercise, and was truly hoping it actually did something --
"-- all right," Twilight slowly resumed. "That's not going to happen again."
Fleur managed a nod.
"I keep picturing myself there," the little mare quietly added. "I try to imagine that poor mare, and -- she turns into me. Over and over. Talk, Fleur. I'll listen. I may have comments, and I'll probably have questions. But if there's any yelling, I'll save it for the end."
Another nod managed. (The breath was harder.) And then Fleur stepped out from behind the bookcase.
She didn't want to look down at Twilight. Putting herself in a physical position where the librarian might want to feel stronger was currently a big mistake. The former escort carefully lowered herself to the floor, and made herself stay there.
"You never loved him," Fleur said. "You loved the stories. Let's restart from there, because I want to make sure you hear it. You came up with a picture of the sort of stallion who would write that way and because you cared about the stories, you made the writer into somepony you could have loved. You cast an illusion, and then you decided it was solid. It's an illusion which a lot of ponies need. The thought of a greater connection, the comfort of the herd --"
-- so many clients told themselves that they were the only ones who truly knew me --
"-- and it's not real. The stories are."
They both breathed. In, out. They could mutually control that much.
"I showed you the main article," Twilight said. "But not his response."
"His --"
"-- there was already an afternoon edition of a newspaper. They talked to him."
"And what did he say?" Already believing she knew.
"That he hadn't raped any of them."
Darkly, "Well, of course he's going to say --"
"-- he said -- it all happened, Fleur. All of it. But that it was -- consensual. And nopony understood what bondage was, or -- 'BDSM', is that it? We were all getting it wrong, and the mares... had just decided not to remember that they'd wanted it. For publicity. And because they were hoping he'd give them money to stop remembering it wrong."
Fleur took a breath.
"It's not much of a defense," the tall mare said.
"No," Twilight agreed. "It isn't." The shivering was starting to come back. "But is that what bondage --"
"-- no. And it's not how domination and submission work, either."
"Rape," Twilight far-too-evenly stated, "is domination."
And I could have explained every possible detail to a client, but this is Twilight and phrasing is going to count for everything... "Yes. And a dock is the base of the tail. It's also where you park a masted sailing ship. It's not just the word: it's the context. BDSM, done properly, is in the context of a relationship. Twilight, when a dom and a sub are truly together... it's a power exchange." And this is where I find out if she can resolve paradox. "But the sub is the one with nearly all of the power."
One second of silence. Two. Five...
"...how?"
"They're the ones who can say 'no'."
And the alicorn couldn't move.
"Safewords," Fleur went on. "You saw that in the article, starting from the title. 'There is no safe word.' When it's real, Twilight... the safe word is how the sub says 'stop'. That it's going too far. And if you ever want to see utter humiliation in a bedroom, then just look at the face of a dom who's been told they crossed the line. Added to guilt and, depending on how the buckles got fastened, possibly some panic. It's like finding a puppy standing over their own mess. The sub can say no, and that must be honored. Because without that agreement, without the give-and-take of the relationship and being willing to stop... it's isn't play any more. It's rape."
"It shouldn't be allowed! It's always --" declared anger in the midst of displacing itself onto the wrong future targets.
Fleur made a decision.
"There is a dom/sub couple in Ponyville," she calmly said. "You've met both of them. You recommended books. You aren't friends with either, not that I'm aware of. But they're ponies you know."
Far too quickly, "Then tell me who they are."
Goldie and Braeö. The sturdy carrot farmer and the slim metallurgist: to find one, look for the other. "No."
"I asked you --"
"-- they are," Fleur said, "two ponies who have never committed rape, and never will. Who wouldn't hurt --" and then had to correct herself. "All right: if anypony attacked one of them, then the other would bring some pain. But their sexual activity is no threat. They just have... a different way of expressing their attraction. I'm telling you they exist so that you know there's ponies who honor 'No'. But I won't tell you who they are. Not while you're angry. Not until you recognize that it can just be two ponies -- playing. Because with a safeword, it's play. And... they love each other."
Because it's also about trust.  
And rape tells somepony they can never trust again.  
Say something.  
I can see you thinking. But you have to talk --
"-- I... guess you would know," Twilight finally ventured.
"I would."
"Because," the alicorn went on, "that's your talent."
I can magically piece together their interests and fetishes. Anypony who sees them walking through Ponyville together knows they're in love.  
But you'll trust my talent.  
My talent, but not me.
"And the stories?" Twilight eventually said. "Fleur, I've read more of his catalog than you have. A lot more. There's... a lot of rape."
"Too many stories have it," the former escort opinionated. "And I mean for literature as a whole. It can be a really cheap way to add drama."
"He always came across as somepony who supported mares," the librarian wearily stated. "So nopony noticed. Or they figured it was literary drama, like you said -- or that he was trying to call attention to the problem."
"Plus he didn't take the cheap way out," Fleur deduced.
"He was --" the alicorn stopped. "Is..." Again. "It's good writing. It... was good..."
The wings twitched. The unicorn waited.
"...some of it is great writing," Twilight softly told her. "Great. And it's me saying that, Fleur. But now it's looking at flowers blooming in a toxic pasture. They're beautiful. But... what's feeding them? Does he write so well about victims because he creates them? Fleur, when I was about halfway through the article, I -- stopped. I went to the shelves and tried to look at some of the older stories. It was -- a sort of defense. Someone who wrote on that level... it couldn't be him. But I couldn't see the text any more. Just the subtext. Screaming at me from between the letters, constantly. In the voices of all the mares who weren't heard. Why didn't I see it before? It was always there. And it's... all that's left. No characters. No plots. Just the screams..."
"You didn't know," Fleur said, and the words were not unkind. "How were you supposed to know? How was anypony?"
"I could have analyzed the themes --" was launched from a sea of self-blame.
"-- and then you probably would have decided he had a favorite drama device," the tall mare considered. "Twilight, I heard about a time travel spell once." From Discord, but that wasn't currently worth mentioning.
"I've cast it," was oddly neutral.
She wondered about the details. "Thirty seconds or so at your chosen arrival point, right? And you can't change anything?"
A tiny nod.
"You're trying to send your knowledge back in time," Fleur observed. "Make all of the context retroactive. You can't. You can't make yourself recognize something before it ever happened. You're just using the only form of time travel which works for everypony and everyone. You look back. And then you figure out what you could have done differently, if you'd just known. And nothing changes. Not for what happened. You can't change the past. You just make your own present worse."
Silence closed in on the library, and found it had a natural home there.
"I can't ever read his books again," Twilight finally said.
"The creation," Fleur said. "Not the creator. Which one did you love? And we haven't even started to talk about what this does to the artists who worked on the magmo -- books. You're taking the books off the shelves. Publishers might take them out of the catalog. What did the artists do, to have any ongoing residuals from sales cut off --"
"-- you saw the story about the writer who raped the spirit of stage plays and performances to get ideas for books," the alicorn pushed -- which was followed by a somewhat more muttered "...and maybe somepony should search every room in his house, just in case..." before resuming normal volume. "I bookmarked it for you."
"It was a strong revenge from the dream incarnation," Fleur admitted. "Yes, Twilight, I read it. I imagine it would kick a little differently if I didn't know." With a soft snort, "Personally, I think effectively saying 'you're going to be cursed with endless great ideas' and then putting a half-dozen of them on the page was just showing off." He probably didn't even write any of those books. "But it was still a good story."
Instantly, as eyes went wide, "How can you --"
"-- you know what stood out to me?" Fleur asked.
"I can't," the alicorn stated. "I don't know a spell to read minds. Nopony does. There's been a lot of theories, though. And I'd ask for volunteers before I tested anything." As a hint of shadow began to coat her tones, "So it might help me if you just said it."
Fair enough. "The dream incarnation," Fleur said, "couldn't deal with mares outside his own family. Not as equals. There was always a power imbalance. Remember that one zebra kraal leader? She knew that they couldn't be together. That something always went wrong when an incarnation tried to be with a mortal."
"She did tell him no," Twilight recalled. "A few times."
"And he kicked her into Tartarus for having rejected him."
"...he did forgive her..." The alicorn was starting to look nauseous. "...eventually. It was supposed to be -- part of his character development across the arc."
"'Eventually'. Several centuries. In Tartarus. The place where you only imprison those who tried to destroy the world. For saying no."
"I thought he was -- trying to establish that the incarnations -- didn't think like we do..."
Beautiful monsters.
"You don't need to forgive someone for turning you down," Fleur firmly stated. "You accept their answer and move on. And his idea of 'forgiveness' was to give her a new life --"
"-- yes --"
"-- as a reborn foal," the former escort finished. "Completely helpless. Utterly dependent on somepony else to take care of her. Incapable of saying no, because she can't even talk yet --"
"-- I'd rather not talk about reincarnation," emerged with an odd amount of -- snap.
It was Fleur's turn to blink. "Sorry?"
The librarian sighed. "It's... never mind. Okay, I see it. It's still control."
The unicorn nodded. "Do you know what else it was?"
"Let me guess," the sarcasm offered. "You spotted a few clues to the previously-unsuspected murders?"
"A pretty good story," Fleur said. "Because he's a good writer. So maybe more people should read it."
And now the alicorn was staring at her.
"Fleur --"
"-- you're blaming the children for the acts of their parent --"
"-- oh, is that where we're going with this?" Twilight snapped. "Books as offspring. Okay, I'll take that analogy. How did he raise them, Fleur? What lessons did he give them, and what did he send them into the world to teach? Just that one with the spirit of stage writing is bad enough! And I didn't even show you the book about the colt who got brought up by ghosts. When ghosts don't exist. But we'll let them be real for a story, right? And we'll even say they're good parents. Better than living ones, because the article --"
"-- I saw what his father used to do to him, and I wish it had never happened. It's not an excuse." Was the librarian ready for this kind of lesson? It was certainly nothing Celestia was capable of teaching. "So he got hurt. A lot of ponies get hurt. You take that pain, and you forge it into a weapon so you won't get hurt again --"
and you take the talent you were never supposed to have and go out into the world to find any way of making it work
"-- and you don't use it to pass that pain into others. He did."
So many mares.  
So many years before they managed to strike back.  
The article probably didn't find half of them.
"Twilight," Fleur carefully said to the alicorn, whose ribs were now beginning to heave, "you can tell readers about the parent. Show the article. Put a warning under the shelf. For the younger readers, no checkout without parental permission."
"He wrote some youth books! There was that one where the filly was going to have her eyes replaced by buttons because that was the only way to get her perfect world --"
"Parental permission for those too," Fleur calmly offered.
"-- and then there was that one he wrote in conjunction with Blessed Hoofnote, they divided up the book and each one did half of it, they kept switching off during scenes and nopony's sure who wrote what --"
"-- and what did Hoofnote do to have the book taken off the shelf?"
"NOTHING!" came very close to breaking the postponement of yelling. "But he thought Quernstone was his friend! So maybe I can't trust his judgment either! Or maybe I shouldn't trust anypony who writes on that level! Or authors --"
"He's a good writer?"
"Was," Twilight bitterly said. "He's dead."
"Is there an article about him? Testimony? Rumors?"
"...no. Never. Nothing. But I can pass on stories from all the ponies who said he helped them," Twilight slowly ventured. "Quernstone would have been one of them."
"It was a solid mask," Fleur observed. "It stayed on for a long time. Twilight, not everypony you wish was good will be. But one being a monster doesn't make them all the same way." And as carefully as she could, looking up with open eyes and dark horn, "Don't love anypony you don't know. Respect, maybe. Admiration. But don't mistake it for love. I'm not telling you that you're wrong to feel angry, or -- betrayed." Or frightened, because you're probably still thinking about how close you came. "But the mask is gone. No more hiding. Ponies can judge the monster now. But the child of a monster -- isn't necessarily a monster. Warn. Educate." With a faint smile, "Lecture. Fluttershy says you enjoy that --" and the smile faded "-- although not with this topic. But maybe the kids need a chance to stand on their own. The stories. So if everypony knows what they're about to read, and who wrote it -- then why not let reading happen? Aren't the books still good?"
The silence returned. Lingered. Explored the loft and got comfortable.
"...Twilight?"
"Some ponies got into reading because of him," the librarian said. "History. I know that. Maybe he inspired somepony to the point where it led to their mark. More writers. Maybe even historians. But... can those who've committed evil acts inspire good? Truly do good?"
"If he inspired somepony," Fleur carefully tried, "for interests or even their talent... then it's not about what he did from now on. It's what they do."
Darkness dropped into the tones with three times the force of gravity. "And if he inspired them towards everything else?"
"It was all subtext," the Protoceran noted. "No one saw it. Not the readers, possibly not any critics, probably not even -- are there any literature courses about his work?"
"I don't know," Twilight solidly stated. "And if there were, then there probably aren't any more. But it's all out in the open now, Fleur. So... what if somepony starts reading his work for the subtext? For another kind of inspiration?"
"People like that," Fleur immediately began, "will always find a justification for their actions somewhere --"
"-- and why does there have to be one more place to look?"
"You can't control what ponies think. You don't know what they think --"
"-- and you," the little mare softly observed, "do."
The "No," came attached to the tiniest head shake biology would allow. "I know what they want. Sometimes I can work out hints of context. Why they might have come to want that. But it's not thoughts. Just -- desires."
"And you never met him."
"I swear --"
"-- you saw the incarnation of desire in the stories?"
Fleur nodded.
"Very beautiful," Twilight quietly decided. "I can say that about a fictional character, I think. Especially with the way all the artists drew those features. Extremely amoral. Pretty much only cares about their own safety. Everything's just a game until they might get hurt..."
She briefly looked down at Fleur. Then she looked away.
Nopony said anything for a while.
"It's my library," Twilight finally said. "I decide what goes on the shelves."
"You could put a glass flip-down shelf over it, with a lock," Fleur pointed out. "Like you did with some of the adult material when you thought the fillies and colts were looking at it. No checkout without librarian consultation. It's the work of a few minutes --"
"-- I was hoping somepony would come in today, even with the cold," Twilight told her. "Somepony I could... talk it all out with."
Fleur, after a frantic moment of internal scrounging, managed to come up with an "I --"
"I didn't want it to be you."
And there was nothing the Protoceran could say.
The alicorn sighed.
"Please get off the floor," she said. "I have to clean later. Fleur -- why are you even here? You're the only patr -- pony who's turned up since the deep freeze kicked in. There's a reason, right?"
Fleur carefully stood. And once her legs were at full extension, she towered over Twilight. But in the presence of that kind of power, it was effectively impossible to loom.
"Fluttershy asked me to pick up a book off the New Release table."
"The newest Maycroft Mysteries?"
"Yes."
"I pulled one from the shipment and put it in Holds for her," the librarian said. "I figured she'd be in sometime this week. I'll get it for you."
The librarian started moving towards the front desk. Fleur let her get ahead, then followed.
"What are you going to do with the Quernstone books?"
"I don't know yet," also had more than a hint of snap. "Maybe I'll think it over some more. If I want to. But it's my library."
"It's Ponyville's library."
"And the librarian," said the Princess of a very small dominion, "decides what goes on the shelves."
"In that case," Fleur decided, "I'd like a copy of that book about the colt being raised by ghosts."
Twilight froze. Fleur managed to stop just before impact.
"You what?"
"The concept sounded interesting. You can kick in that one about the button eyes, too. If you've still got them on the shelf."
"You want to see --"
"-- most writers don't get a Lascaux," Fleur noted. "And they might not be here after you finish. Well?"
"...they're in the Youth section," Twilight muttered. "And no matter what happens, that won't be where they are from now on."
There was a brief detour. Books were collected and, reluctantly, officially registered by the librarian as having been checked out.
Fleur went up to the loft, got dressed again. (There was no appreciative audience for that either, and she could already feel the sweat beginning to rise.) Came down the ramp, and her corona collected the books from the front desk, depositing them into loaned saddlebags.
"I didn't make you late, did I?" Twilight asked from her position on the central bench. "This took a while."
Fleur managed a smile. "Fluttershy knows I can get stuck in town. If she was worried, she would have sent a carrier bird to the tree. With a note asking Spike to send me a letter." Which was easier than hoping the avian could pick Fleur out of an outdoor crowd. "We're fine."
The alicorn nodded. "Go home. I'll tell Spike you dropped by. I know you always try to see him."
The Protoceran began to trot away, as long legs easily picked up speed --
-- the little mare didn't get up. Didn't follow. Only the words reached Fleur, and they didn't want company.
"I don't understand you," Twilight quietly stated. "I try. For Fluttershy, I keep trying. But I don't. And I'm not sure I ever will."
Fleur started to turn --
"-- go home, Fleur," was almost a whisper. "I... don't want to do this any more today. Just... go home."
The beautiful mare closed the cracked front door behind her. Observed the empty streets, then moved forward under a Moon which had been raised some time. Passed the book fort --
-- I would have known him for what he was.
Slowed.
I always know.   
There was that one mare I found. She... wasn't this bad.
(Was she telling herself the truth?)
It was false contracts. Promise to only go that far, then not honor it. But that wasn't rape. It was -- pushing the limits. More pain than the other party expected, because that's what she wanted. If she'd just found the right masochist...
Slower still.
...I turned her in. At the end. When Celestia asked if I knew anypony playing around on the edges of the law... I nosed her name over. It all got resolved.  
And before that, I was blackmailing her.  
I figured out what she truly desired. I found some physical evidence.
If she closed her eyes, she could see the photographs. Or she could do that without closing them.
And then I sent a private message telling her somepony knew what she was. And that unless so much money arrived at the drop every so often... everypony would know.  
She wasn't on Quernstone's level.
(How fine was the difference?)
If I'd ever met him, I would have known what he was.  
If I'd met him at a party...
Bestselling author. That meant money.  
Famous. Add a need to protect reputation.  
What would he have paid to...
...I would have found some way of turning him in. Anonymous tip.  
It's rape.  
I wouldn't have turned away from that.  
I gave up everything at the instant I realized that pedophile was targeting Sweetie. Everything.  
I... wouldn't have...  
...I was a blackmailer --  
-- I wouldn't --
"Can those who've committed evil acts inspire good? Truly do good?"
The pony with a griffon's heart stood perfectly still, under watching Moon and stars within a frozen moment. And Fleur, at the center of all her elaborately-layered shielding, was cold.