Tales on the Periphery

Chapters

The Pulley
You Just Can't See Him From the Road
How Changed From What She Was!

The Pulley

Come closer, and look down at it. A story told in whispers, a poem scrawled on pages kept secret in the scrollboxes of Gods and contemplated on lonely days when the rains flood the valley. So you’d hear it all. You’d wish, Daughters of Canterlot, to know the story of why Celestia sometimes pulls from a worn chest the crest of the sword and sun and sighs, cradling it. Perhaps you have heard that tale and it troubles you.

For once, there was a Goddess who would love a mortal pony, a young pegasus of fierce eye and strong wing. Captain Battle Born was his name, and ever was he first among the Princess’s Royal Companions. First was he before the others all in the matters of the mind, and most skilled was he in all the world with the lance and the hoofblade. He was the envy of every stallion of the guard, and their most prized pony. Every mare from the palace to far off Las Pegas could sing the tales of his feats and knew his face, tracing it with their hooves in the secret rooms of their hearts, enamored.

And Celestia, Songborn, was a mare, and in this one respect perhaps came close to touch the earth her subjects also trod: for she too loved this stallion. That love common to all ponies began to grow in her slowly, starting as admiration and ripening into a kind of devotion perhaps foreign to one who saw the stars being concieved.

But the rub was this: Battle Born was a stallion devoted to duty, and romancing a princess, no matter how much she would welcome his ardor, was not dutiful.

Celestia’s heart was troubled, and the sun wavered for a week as it rose and as it sunk below the world’s edge. When she raised the moon with acolyte’s grip (for in these days the palace was new and the Mare so recently put into the Moon), the night sky lost some of its lustre. The ponies of the city did not notice, but Battle Born and the College of Mages did.

Celestia and her student, Ink Well, sat in the gardens and she finally told him the secret.

The young unicorn—hapless he!—was woefully ignorant in the softer arts, and had little good to say. But faithfully he began to offer a plan.

Blessings would be the road upon which the affections of the Sun’s Shephard would best tread. Simply, Battle Born must be shown that his mistress favored him high above others.

Princess Celestia, Songborn and also without knowledge, agreed, and so she ordered that Battle Born, Lord Marshall, be given estates and gold. A pension of wine was awarded his personal bodyguard, and richly purchased armor was acquired for them. Proudly, his family’s Sun and sword crest was displayed upon the barding of those proud souls.

And he was not moved, though he bowed and was humbled. Still his heart would not be towards her. He was blind, or would not see.

And so Ink Well began again. If riches would not sway noble heart, than perhaps it was Celestia of the West who must be the gift. For such blasphemies, any other pony would have been struck and his fellows with horrified dismay would have drawn aside... but he was the Faithful Student, and so she listened with eagerness as the confused and poor unicorn with wine-red curls tried to explain the arts of seduction to a goddess.

So strength first made a way. Celestia showed herself proud on the field of parade and with keen eye addressed her troops, and they were overcome with awe for her. She raced Battle Born, and in other ways she proved that she was no simpering princess of soft pillows only. But for all of his reverence and worship, he was not moved how she wished.

Then wisdom, and honor. The Princess would summon him for walks of the city and the halls, and there discuss weighty things with her favorite pegasus. Years of wise counsel and peerless privilege enjoyed with propriety shaped him into a stallion of world-class learning and intellect. And yet, for all of his keen insight, he was moved as she wished.

Came pleasure. Wine and song, the company of beautiful and brave youths and the echoing of laughter in the personal quarters of a Princess whose eyes spoke the sun. Symposiums that lasted until the morning, and when all were cheerful with the wine from the valley below, Celestia would sometimes ask him what he thought. About this. About that. And always he was honest, for he could do nothing else. And yet never she dared to ask him what she wished. And he was not moved as she wished.

And years passed and Celestia feared. For a mare who has given much will sometimes fear, as a stallion would, that it was all for naught. He might, she whispered in the quiet places of the palace when the day was newly born, simply love what I give. He may simply love the fruits my service gives him, and not the giver of the gifts which bring him such joy. And she was sick at heart.

For Battle Born had grown and grown. No longer peerless he amidst the strife, but still a legend. His eyes were deep with knowledge. His wings strong, and his tongue swift and soothing in turn. He above all others was a true son of Eon’s love, that one who gave birth to the Pegasi in the days of the Song. And she saw her sister in him, and wept bitterly at the suspicion that he might not love her at all in any way.

Alone of all the treasures she could give, rest lay at the bottom of her great stores. She pondered it quietly. For in all of her rush to bestow on him every joy that mortal heart could ken, she had given him Rest only as a collateral.

And so she decided that her love’s desire would be tested.

She took from him rest. He walked and flew the fronts and the borders. His hooves touched every cobblestone and every rampart in Equestria, and his weary eyes inspected every soldier and every militapony. His leisures with her and with his fellows drained his energy. Though he slept, he found no lasting peace. All was busy energy and happiness that battered.

No longer did Celestia give him all the pleasures of life, but Battle Born took all of it in stride. With stoic smile and great heart (which will not be denied) he continued in the service of the Sun’s Mare.

And surely, Celestia was torn. Without him, her heart grew sad and the waters of her mind roiled like the seas north of Vanhoover, those cold and dismal blue-black wastes.

And finally, years of service past and still he would not crack. Nothing had changed. Always he was the same.

And Celestia’s heart was great with sorrow, and finally, she summoned him home and housed him in the palace and would let him do no work.

He had grown old but had done so well. And he perceived the sorrow of his lady and asked her at last what troubled her heart.

And she told him it all, as Rest found him finally on the soft cushions and the loving company denied him. It had been her love that she had waged this long campaign for, harsher than any against Griffon or Dragon menace.

And he wept, for always he had loved her and thought that she was blind yet. That she would not see in his devotion to his duty his fervent love. And a blind goddess was taken aback. And the gray-maned bowed his head, and all the words were spoken, and yet still there was happiness to be attained. But not right then. Then was regret’s time.

And that, daughters of Canterlot, is why when the dusk of work’s ending approaches, our fair Lady of the West will take out a small crest and stroke it, and remember how once she loved and made the best of stallions.

Author's Note

The Pulley, by George Herbert (Whom I love)

When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
“Let us,” said he, “pour on him all we can.
Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.”

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

“For if I should,” said he,
“Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

“Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.”

You Just Can't See Him From the Road

It’s amazing what you notice, and what you don’t.

I sigh and wipe my sweaty brow with a hoof as he chuckles.

“Good day, eh, Caramel?”

I nod, smiling. And it had been. I’d done a lot of thinking, working my long line of trees. I work at the farm for the Apples during the harvest and the planting, and this stretch of land is almost becoming as familiar to me as my own apartment in Ponyville.

Ponies are always surprised when I tell them that I work seasonally like this, on a farm. Of course, a lot of my friends don’t know much about where I come from. Mostly they know that I paint, and they know sometimes that I sell paintings up north to Manehattan. That’s true, sure enough.

Big Mac lays back on the cart and chews on his little stalk of grass like he always does.

But I’d been thinking. Why, I have no idea. But I’d been looking over at the rows to my left, where he bucked apples out of the tree without a word. Big Mac doesn’t talk much, but he smiles like a champion. To be fair, he doesn’t really need to say much, because he’s fine with the silence and when he looks at you, it speaks volumes. At least, it always did for me. When we were foals, we could go a long time without much talking.

I thought a lot about running along the dirt roads with Mac, before he ever got his yoke. And I thought about my own family’s farm, farther south. We lived and worked just north of the Riverlands, before Pa lost his farm and we ended up working on the Apple’s land.

And I had thought about Mac. Perhaps it’s the artist in me, rearing itss ugly, acrylic-stained head, but I can’t help but notice. How he’ll sometimes pause in the work day and smile a soft smile when he thinks no one is looking. He’ll just look out over the land that his family loves and love it along with all of them and seeing him happy made me smile. Or how he works with a kind of devotion I can only dream of replicating, how he goes on and on, energy burning like a mighty flame.

I sit on the cart beside him as the other hooves get water and talk about going into town. I glance over at him, and shiver. I...

How his green eyes light up when he gets an idea. Or how like my father he would rather be broken then give up, no matter how heavy the burden or tough the task. How he works until the bell for supper and then sometimes just a little after, and will not do anything less than his best. How he smiles and... it makes me happy.

I shake my head and look away from him.

I’ve always wanted to paint him. I wonder if he’d understand, but the desire has been there... gosh, how long? I even had kind of a scene in mind: Mac, standing in the orchard like always, but in one of those pauses in the workday. I imagined what it might be like today as I worked.

My eyes find him again almost of their own accord. They run across his well-toned body, his legs hard with muscle from work and honest toil. He’s a sketchbook’s dream, all glorious detail and figure. The mares in town all watch him walk the streets, on the rare days he goes to Ponyville. I always watch him too, and always tell myself it’s for aesthetic purposes. Mostly.

I have no idea why he weighs so heavily on my mind, but he does. It’s like the yoke he’s laid down between us is on my neck now. I can feel it, and suddenly I’m caught between two inexplicable notions: flight and speech.

What do I want to say? I have only this sort of nameless feeling.

It’s rooted somewhere in a welcome smile and wise green eyes and how his mane is flowing and how he smells of the earth our mother and how...

How maybe it’s not just that I want to paint him.

It occurs to me that I’ve only ever done portraits of loved ones. My mother. My sisters, laughing as our father takes them on a ride. My cousin in her mourning black, from my memory.

And now I want to paint a new painting, contemplate something else, and it’s him. And for some reason it scares me. When I paint, I think and I focus. I look at the object, I meditate on it, I try to figure out what it means to me and why I want to do what I want to do.

“Hey, Mac,” I say, and I hear my voice shake.

He opens one eye, curious. “Yeah, Caramel? Whatcha need?”

“I... I just wondered if you were busy.”

“Hm?”

I fidget. My hooves shake. I cough.

I paint things, I find, because I want them to continue on. Because I love them.

“I mean, if you’re not... we could... hang out, I guess.” My voice is weak, and I curse it for its betrayal.

I’ve got a reputation. Not a bad one, of course, but one all the same. Big Mac knows what way I swing. He’ll see right through my pathetic attempts to play it cool, and he’ll see what I’m thinking. Those beautiful sharp eyes see more than he lets on, I’ve learned that well.

Because I think I love him.

Maybe I always did. Maybe I didn’t until this very moment, thinking about why I want to paint a portrait of him and how he makes me shake and how I love his smile and his bassy voice. Maybe I always loved him, when I looked for him from the road, and was sad when I couldn’t see him on my way to town. Maybe it’s why I always come back here, whether I need the money or not, because I want to see him and I want him to see me and say hello so that I can say hello back, so that we can talk and he can smile at me and we can be friends. Because I want to be that, that much I’m sure of. I want him to like me. Because I like him.

And I’m afraid because I don’t know if it’s something he’ll return.

He raises and eyebrow, and I want to flee.

“Eenope. Not busy.”

I let out a breath. “Well...”

“Sure.”

And I promptly shut up, because that is all I need. He grins at me with that smile and my heart melts. I can practically hear it do so. My hooves want to jump and dance with elation, and my head spins from confusion. My thoughts trip over themselves.

“Whatcha got in mind?”

I have no idea.

Author's Note

Title comes from a Chris Ledoux song. I love Ledoux--and you should too! Ha.

Razed told me I should try M/M and I gave an attempt. It's mediocre, but I think it illustrates something about my writing--I'm BAD on plot, but good with just... lulling people in. My best stories succeed because they are thick with pretty flowery words and that's my strength.

What I didn't like here, besides the stuff that's TMP- thirty minute caused is that Caramel doesn't FEEL... well, masculine. Which must sound weird, but when I write Raridash I try my hardest for that feminine quality in their first person narration and thoughts and stuff. But maybe I'll try again.

How Changed From What She Was!

How Changed From What She Was

She lies there.

If she sees me watching her from the stairwell, she makes no acknowledgement of it. Rainbow is still as much as she can bear. She breathes, she stares. The Daring Do novel Twilight brought by a few days ago lies on the table with a bookmark between it’s almost virginal pages. I know it’s stayed somewhere between pages twenty-five and twenty-six for awhile now.

The glass of water remains half-empty, as it was when I last saw her.

I consider calling out to her, greeting her. Of course, I know what will happen: Rainbow will turn around, smile at me, and she’ll even manage conversation. I can almost map out the conversation now as I stand on the stairs.

“Heya, Rares,” she’ll say, giving me that lopsided smile that I love.

“Are you alright, Rainbow?” I’ll ask her, unable to do anything else. I cannot hide my worry when it comes to her; it is a flaw in my pursuit of decorum and a stoic face. With her I have always worn my heart like an amulet around my neck.

“I’m fine. Just a little sleepy. I should thank Twilight next time I see her, this book is great.”

And so it would continue. I would dance and she would dance, but it would be so unlike our regular waltz. There would be no teasing or smiling, no suggestion. No, perhaps it was not a dance. A chase. But not the kind I adore leading her on. It is not the kind where I always plan to be caught in the end. The end of this chase frightens me.

So I say nothing.

Her head lies on her hooves. Her wings are bound to her back as they have been since the day I carried her in my magic’s hold. I can almost feel the strain of it now, as her every groaning and squirming caused me agonies I would never tell her of. From Twilight’s house it was a long walk to the hospital. Big Macintosh’s help had not made it any better, for then there had been the blood, and my skills had been so useless.

But I say nothing. I walk up the stairs quietly, my hooves carefully mounting each wooden step. A Lady does not throw pearls to swine. She speaks only when it will do good, or when perhaps there is still hope.

I pause.

When there is still hope. Once, when I was younger, I had a list I kept. On the the top of the paper was the phrase “A Lady...” followed by maxims of things I imagined in my girlish innocence defined a lady of true refinement. I still remember writing those words, the enchanted pen recording my thoughts.

My will to clean is gone. The living areas in the boutique will survive another day of being slightly dirty and out of order.

Instead, I enter our room and find myself drawn to our bed. I lie down.

Below me, I know Rainbow is still.

I look over at the calendar on our bedside table. When she wakes up in the morning, Rainbow finds it groggily and checks off yet another day. At the end of the appointed marching days, I know there is a red circle around a date and words declaring it “Doctor. Wings.”

But that doesn’t mean that they’ll be fixed. Only that we’ll know by then which way the wind blows.

I imagine, as I always have. In my discontent, I picture Rainbow Dash standing on a wooden fence as she has done before on Applejack’s farm. She is balancing, careful not to fall one way or another. She will not hope. She will not feel pain and tell me. Instead, she stands with all four hooves where there is not enough room for even one, and she despairs and thinks I will not see. She will not move away from the fence. She will stand on it and die.

Why won’t she choose? Why can’t she care? How is it that I am apart from her, my own pony, and I care more for than she does? When will she love herself as much as I love her? I would rather she be cold or hot, because what sits on my couch is lukewarm and it is not Rainbow. I would spit it out of my mouth, for it offends me. It steals Rainbows eyes and face and voice and wallows in discontentment.

I blink away my tears and look again at the calendar. I think I will move it down to the kitchen, so that at the very least she will have to come down stairs and hopefully speak before beginning the day’s sitting.

She doesn’t come up the stairs. I wish that it was night, so that she would return to our bed. In the dark I can lie and tell myself that with a kiss I can convince her to choose something besides sitting, but when the lights are on I know she may not.

Author's Note

If this snapshot interest you, please read the original which is set just a little bit after this. It's some of the best work I've done (I think) and I just... like it. It was wonderful to return to Rarity and Dash.

Catch For Us the Little Foxes

The title is from Vergil! The original context refers to Achilles, I think, or Hector--after they're dead and thus defeated. And different. How mighty are the fallen and all that