A Morning Ritual

by Honey Mead

Rating: everyone
Tags: Fancypants, Tragedy, Fleur de Lis, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 3396

Having a morning ritual allows a pony to prepare for the coming day with a minimum of thought, thus freeing their minds to contemplate everything from the past to the future... for some this is less then ideal.

[10/10 The Equestrian Critics Society] [Featured on EQD] [Twilight's Library Approved]
Having a morning ritual allows a pony to prepare for the coming day with a minimum of thought, thus freeing their minds to contemplate everything from the past to the future... for some this is less than ideal.

Editing: Tundara and Flea Candy

Published 2013-04-04 01:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-06-05 09:48:22 UTC

The Headline

Another sunrise washed the streets and homes of Canterlot in its warm embrace. For most, it was the beginning of another happy day to spend in the pursuit of their dreams and passions. For some, it was the end of the same. There was at least one, however, who could not say the same with integrity.

The alarm clock beside his head ticked by as he waited. There was no hurry, no reason to rise from the empty comfort of the silk sheets that kept the cool of the night at bay. And so he waited, awake, but not alone.

Lost on the other side of the massive four-post bed, his wife still slept, dreaming what she willed. Two ponies could easily fit within the empty space between them. A cruel smile twisted his lips at the thought.

In the microseconds before the alarm sounded, his hoof found the switch and flipped it, preventing the migraine-inducing bells from breaking the silence of his chambers.

His repose finally at its end, the white stallion rolled from the foam-based mattress with care to make as little disruption as possible. The mare on the other side would not have noticed had he jumped upon it like a foal, but it was the principle of the thing.

He shivered the moment his hooves touched the cold stone floor. With bleary eyes, he looked down and realized he’d, once again, failed to put to use the slippers his wife had given him for their anniversary three years past. He smiled. It had become his own private little joke, almost a thousand chances and he had never set hoof in a single one.

Without any conscious thought, he glanced back at the mare to whom he’d promised his life. Only a puff of soft pink mane could be seen of the mare in the sea of deep blue sheets. He could just barely make out her lithe form, her slender legs gripping the silk to draw it tight about her.

There had been happy times... well, better times. When they’d first met while floating through similar social circles. There were a few shared interests and many agreed upon philosophies. From that first day, everypony talked about them being so perfect for each other—many still believed it too.

That was what had forced them together: social pressure. They’d both been young and on their way up, looking for any way to become more accepted and important in the eyes of the ponies they called friends and equals. Society had tied them together with manacle and chain, and to even attempt an escape would destroy everything they had worked for.

Suppressing a sigh, he finally left the bedside. His hooves clicked softly against the hard floor as he made his way to the bathroom.

The oak door closed behind him in a soft blue aura in the same moment that the knobs for the shower twisted.

Cold water poured forth from the brass fixture for a solid twenty seconds before the pipes finished flushing and the hot water from the boiler finally made its way to the third-story bathroom. Steam filled the enclosed space, driving out the morning chill.

Without further ado, he stepped into the shower, flinching slightly at the scalding water soaking through his fur. It took a scant few seconds for the stallion to be completely waterlogged, strands of blue mane hanging listlessly over his face and neck.

Blinded by the joint efforts of the steam, water, and his mane, he was forced to rely on practiced precision to bring his shampoo to bear. With the use of a coarse brush, he worked the soap into his coat and mane. A grimace took shape under his mustache as he applied more and more force to the brush, scraping through the hairs of his coat in the vain attempt to scour away the years of regret built up beneath his skin. It didn’t work... It never did.

By the time he finished and stepped out of the shower, he could hear the sounds of his wife in her bathroom on the other side of their shared bedchamber. She was singing, as she always did in the mornings, a soft tune in her native tongue. It would not be called a joyful song, more happily content, and completely at odds with his own mood.

He did not understand how she could maintain such a state, given their situation. Oh, he could wear the facade before the world, his mask a perfect replica of a pony filled with a joy for life. Indeed, it was only during this time, the early mornings, when he let the mask slip. It was a necessary thing, else the pressure would build to the breaking point. But Fleur... she never took it off. He could see through it—after living together for so long, he couldn’t help but to pick up on such things—but he had never once seen her slip.

A towel rose from the pile next to the sink and began its work, drawing out the moisture still trapped in his coat. It took three before he was dry and another two for his mane and tail. With the last bit of unsodden cloth, he wiped the moisture from the mirror.

Fancypants watched his reflection. For a short time, he tried to imagine what things would be like if they had gone his way. If he had never met Fleur or simply refused to succumb to pressures of society. Shaking his head, he cast out the false memories. He would have been no happier there.

He held no ill will toward the mare preparing herself on the other side of the bedchamber. It was no more her fault than his, less so by any real measure. He envied her ability to cope; that was all. He did not truly blame society either; they simply provided the convenient scapegoat. No, there were only two ponies to blame for his ennui, and one was busy glaring at himself in a bathroom mirror.

It took fully as long as his shower to bring his mane and mustache to heel before he exited the solitude of his bath. Stepping back into the bedroom, he was forced to put aside his dour mood. His valet stood ready, and they immediately began their morning dance and parlay as they sorted through his choices for clothing and accessories for the day. It was a solid twenty minutes before he sat down at the breakfast table for his morning paper and coffee.

Fancypants allowed himself his first genuine smile of the day as he took in the delicate aroma steaming just below his muzzle. For all his wealth and connections, his choice in coffee was simple. He did not believe in lattes and cappuccinos. To his taste, coffee was perfect in its purest form. Simple, black, strong.

That was not to say he was without variety. He enjoyed every style of coffee bean from every country fortunate enough to be able to produce it. From the smell alone, he could deduce the origin of the bean. This particular brew was grown in the northern reaches of Zebrica; the climate there produced a bean with a distinct hazelnut flavor that he rather enjoyed.

Smiling again, he brought the porcelain cup up to his lips to take the first sip as he opened to the morning edition of Canterlot Times.

The cup stopped mere inches from his frowning lips. He barely noticed the smells that he had been savoring only moments ago, too distracted by the image printed upon the front of the newspaper. Scanning the article confirmed the topic of the picture and the roles of the ponies therein. The delicate cup found its way back to the table as a sour twist in his stomach left him feeling ill and without a taste for the drink.

It wasn’t fair for him to feel betrayed; he had no right to be. He could place no claim upon the pony the article featured. That bridge had been crossed long ago and by all rights should have been forgotten by now. He was a married stallion and faithful if not loving. His path had been set, and, by Celestia, he would walk it with a clean conscience.

With a heavy sigh, he set the paper aside, and, staring into the dark surface of his coffee, allowed himself to brood.

He remained there for a time, unmoving, until the sound of hooves and an opening door brought him back to the present. Fleur, finally finished with her own preparations, stepped briskly into the sunroom. They shared a pleasant enough smile with each other as she took her seat across from him, though neither said a word. Moments later her lady’s maid entered carrying Fleur’s meal on her back, and, placing it upon the table, she left as quickly as she had arrived, leaving her employers to their meals.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of Fleur’s silverware clicking softly against itself and the dishes.

Pausing long enough to take a sip of her tea, Fleur took up the morning paper to glance at the headlines. Her tongue clicked loudly, almost echoing around the small room with its disapproval.

“Will the princess never manage to rein in her nephew?”

The Mirror's Image

Fleur de Lis’ breath left her body at a calm, steady rate. Her eyes were closed, and she stirred not an inch. Even her ears remained motionless in her state of repose under her rich silk sheets, or so it would seem to anypony who may have taken the time to notice.

They would be wrong. In truth, Fleur de Lis was waiting. She had been waiting for the better part of the past hour. It was all part of her morning ritual, a ritual that had started some three years prior.

At the appointed time—the same time it occurred every morning—the pony beside her rolled out of the bed to land softly on his four un-slippered hooves. The almost imperceptible sound cut through her ears like a hoof scrapping a chalkboard. Still, her breathing did not falter, nor did her ears twitch or her eyelids flicker. The pain that simple sound caused had scarred years ago, and she had grown used to it, fearing its absence almost as much as she feared its continued recurrence.

The quartet of hooves moved cautiously away from the shared bed to the bathroom located on his side of the room. Only after she was sure the door had closed did she break from her self-imposed paralysis, sliding out from under the sheets to stand at her side of the bed. With practiced, unconscious accuracy, her magic found and pulled the bell cord to summon Seline, her lady's maid.

Three years... almost to the day. It had started out so innocently. A simple gift, something so small and innocuous that she’d never really given it any thought. He’d smiled at the slippers. The soft blue matched his eyes perfectly; it was why she’d bought them in the first place. The next morning she’d woken up early and, upon noticing the time, decided to wait it out, to reclaim the hour of sleep her body had tried to deny her. Lying there, eyes closed, she heard him. A quartet of hooves clicking on the hard floor. It was so small, so unimportant, and yet... yet nothing had hurt quite so much as that quiet sound.

Fleur had never held any illusions regarding their marriage. Love had never been a factor in the decision; it was the furthest thing from their minds at the time. The both of them agreed; their union was nothing but a political and social move. It had worked spectacularly too. Overnight, they went from being two popular and well-liked ponies to a powerhouse couple that rivaled even the princess, now princesses.

And yet... and yet some small part of her had held onto a hope. A small spark of possibility that, maybe, just maybe, they would grow to love each other. It wasn’t so much to ask, to find joy in the pony with whom she now shared her life. To be the cause of his smiles as he was the cause of hers.

In the same motion that rang the bell, she retrieved the bathrobe Fancypants had bought her that same year. The plush, almost white, pink robe was more comfortable than any clothing had a right to be; or it would be if it didn't make her itch furiously. She wore it every day. Winter or summer, it made no difference. Without fail, the sleeves encased her forelegs, and the belt cinched across her barrel. The ritual was so ingrained in her that she may as well have been asleep.

Moving to her own bathroom, she couldn’t deny the appeal of that thought. Perhaps this was just one, long, extended nightmare that refused to end. Some part of her psyche holding her mind captive as her real self slept fitfully beside a husband who could love her.

Seline stepped into the bathroom a moment later with a casual greeting, one Fleur returned without thought. So their mutual ritual began. Pointless words spoken and returned while a bath was drawn and makeup set aside. Ten minutes later, Fleur was neck deep in the brass tub, the smell of roses filling the air from the oils and lotions added to the heated water.

Seline grew quiet as she worked the brush over Fleur’s coat, forcing out what little grit and dirt there was to be found.

Were it a dream, it would be the most real dream she’d ever experienced, lasting three long years with only a single instance of surrealism to mark it as such.

That first morning had opened her eyes, and, try as she might, they would not close. She began to see the small things, things that she had passed off as little nothings without meaning. They held meaning though, so much meaning. Each one a betrayal, each one a twist of the knife that had pierced her heart that first morning. How she failed to notice it previously, she did not know. Willful blindness perhaps, though she didn’t believe that was right. It had simply never crossed her mind as a possibility. She wondered if any other pony ever noticed.

Leaving the now lukewarm water, Fleur allowed the slight chill of the air to banish any lingering drowsiness. Seline responded quickly and wrapped her in a series of towels until she was fully encased in the absorbent cloth. They let the towels do their work of wicking away the moisture and turned their attention instead to the makeup arrayed before them.

There was not much as Fleur had no intentions of leaving the mansion and so felt no need to put great effort into her appearance. A light pink eyeshadow and a reserved application of powder to disguise any blemishes on her cheeks.

A lullaby flowed from Fleur’s lips while Seline turned her attention to the mess of pink that made up her mistress’ mane and tail. Seline persisted against tangles as Fleur sang, both wielding the only weapon available to fight their private battle. The former eventually hers aside in triumph.

Her role in their ritual finished, Seline was dismissed with a nod, sent off to see to breakfast, leaving Fleur with only her reflection and song.

The mare looking back at her was a beauty. There was nothing boastful about the statement. It was a simple fact agreed upon by all. Even Celestia herself had complimented her on her form. Of all her memories, there was none brighter than that moment. The words had been simple, a small comparison that had been made by a great many before her. Coming from the Princess, however, they held a whole new meaning.

For the first time that morning, a genuine smile found its way to her lips as she imagined her mane as a flowing spectrum of color waving gracefully behind her. The lullaby began to shift in kind, the tones lifting from their melancholic notes to something approaching a soothing meter.

The bedroom door closed, marking Fancypants’ exit. Fleur’s voice faltered, and the moment was lost.

Towels rose from her flanks and withers, folding in midair and falling into the laundry basket. The bathrobe returned to her, slipping easily back into place. The morning was chilly enough to justify its use even if that was not why she chose to wear it.

Not for the first time, she felt the tears fighting for release. She didn’t know what she was doing. The robe itched terribly, or rather, her mind made it itch. It carried with it nothing but painful memories of all the poor choices she’d made to reach her dreams. Every morning she tortured herself with those reminders, and for what? Fancy never noticed, whether from ignorance or malice she did not know, but she could not stop herself. Did she really want to see him realize just what he was doing to her? He wasn’t a bad pony. Indeed, he was far nicer than any stallion she had met before or since. Yet, here she was, hoping that he’d take notice of this small thing, realize that she knew and see her pain reflected in his eyes. When had she become so cruel?

Turning from the mirror and the devil it reflected, Fleur finally left, forcing thoughts of her morning repast to take precedence.

Those thoughts died as she entered the sunroom. The smell of coffee permeated the air, overpowering her more subtle perfumes. Fancypants lounged in his usual seat, a lone mug of coffee on the table before him. Oddly, the newspaper which would normally hid the stallion's face sat discarded in the middle of the table.

Fleur barely noticed, too distracted by the false, empty smile with which her husband greeted her. She returned it with no more sincerity, managing to conceal her mixture of relief and anger at his continued lack of recognition.

Seline entered a moment later with a breakfast tray balanced on her back. Setting the dishes neatly about Fleur, Seline bowed and left the couple to their chosen breakfasts.

Fleur began her meal more out of rote than hunger, taking a few bites before chancing a glance across the table to witness Fancypants' face. She knew at once that something was off. He’d not taken a single sip of his beloved beverage, and his eyes had barely left the discarded stack of papers between them. In a fit of curiosity, Fleur claimed the folded paper to quickly scan the articles.

Her emotions raged between such opposites of joy and anguish that she felt she must surely be laughing and crying in equal measure. The next words to fill the air could not have possibly come from her. They were far too cold and steady, almost detached in their complete lack of emotion.

And there it was, the one thing she had wanted and feared more than anything else in the world. She hadn’t known what to expect in that moment, would she feel pain or relief, the freedom of vindication or the weight of guilt. There were none of these. Instead, she felt naught but hollow, like her heart had beat its last.

In his eyes, those eyes she had both wished to love and struggled to hate, she saw what she had never expected:

Herself.

Author's Note

First, thank you for taking the time to read my little piece of fiction.

I never really intended to write a follow up to the first chapter until after it was published. After that I worked on this for two weeks before throwing everything away. Then two nights ago it hit me and I beat out the rough draft in an hour and with the help of a friend shaped it up sporadically until releasing it.

It losses some of it's impact being presented separately from the original, if I'd planned this I would have made them a single chapter that inter-sped both perspectives for maximum effect. Either way, I hope you enjoyed it, please leave any thoughts in the comments section; I am always open to criticism.