A Blueberry and Her Greenery

[Gentian]

A Blueberry and Her Greenery



9 – The Middle City

We stand in one of the opulent guest suites of Canterlot Castle, amid sumptuous furniture of fragrant woods, and curtains of silk and velvet. The chambers are large, and luxuriously appointed, making up one of many apartments reserved for favored guests of the Diarchy. A broad table, centerpiece of the antechamber, is before us. We run our hand over it's surface: cool to the touch, and mildly pitted beneath a satin patina.

There, against the wall is a chez lounge; we're careful not to damage it's intricately painted toile as we sit. It creaks slightly as it takes our weight, built as it is for creatures smaller and lighter than ourselves, but it's well-made, and we do not fear collapse. The air is still, and heavy. Motes of dust glow in the beams of early morning light cutting through the gaps in the closed curtains.

Faintly, we hear echoes through the doors: the castle staff carrying out their duties. Our lounge is comfortable; we wait patiently, as their hoofsteps approach.

The door opens, maids and stallionservants pour through the aperture, dusting, straightening, and changing the unslept-in linens. They work with the quick efficiency of the professional, cleaning from top to bottom, then finally bringing in trays of fruits, cakes, and drinks. The items are arranged on our table, interspersed with colorful flowers and a variety of decorative leaves according to the fastidiously clucking tongue of the chief maid. Then, their task done, the ponies depart, and the door closes behind them.

To our right, the portafenestre have been thrown open, and their bundled curtains waft in the summer breeze. Quietly we watch from our chair as the hours pass. It's a pleasant day, and as the sun rises higher, the sky adopts the deep sapphire blue so beloved of the Princess of Day. On our table, now burdened under the finest oats, sweetest carrots, and juiciest apples, also stand crystal decanters of cider and nectar, casting faint stains of amber and yellow on the polished marble walls.

More noise from beyond the door, different than before. Louder, steadier. The steps of confident ponies, unafraid to be noticed, not of servants who find virtue in stealth.

The door is thrown open, and soldiers enter, resplendent in their shining armor and cropped manes, each one the image of a recruitment poster come to life. They take up position to either side of the door, as a unicorn the color of sky and high cirrus clouds strides in, Anon at her side.

The squad's doyenne speaks with them, but what they say isn't important to us: mere dutiful welcomes couched in formality. Servants, and facilities of the castle are placed at the guest's disposal, and they're told their hostesses will receive them shortly after sundown. Then the soldiers leave, and we are alone with the unicorn and her human.

No sooner has the door closed than the unicorn's body changes: her eyes and withers soften, her tail relaxes, and her nose no longer points so stubbornly skyward. She busies herself inspecting the rooms, perusing the delicacies laid out for their enjoyment, criss-crossing the apartment, her hoofsteps varying as she transits from stone to carpet, and back again, and tosses her star-spangled garments on the bed.

Her human, on the other hand watches her, and only her. We can see that she knows, but for reasons of her own, pretends that she does not.

“Trixie, what's wrong?” he at last asks.

She turns her head, and looks at him calculatingly, then, with a forced smile, “I'm thinking of the Princesses.” His face expresses the disbelief his silence does not.

Is that a look of pain on her face? Regret? Guilt? Whatever it might be, it's lost as her large purple eyes take on a flinty cast, and she looks deliberately to the windows. “There are only a few hours until sunset, Anon. We should bathe and make ourselves presentable.”

Soon we rise from the lounge, and follow them to the baths: great open basins of hot and cold water couched between the golden, domed spires of Canterlot Castle on one side, and a stunning panorama of Equestria, highlighted by Cloudsdale's distant, classical beauty on the other. Anon called them “Roman,” and they prove wonderfully distracting. For a time laughter and splashes echo joyously together, then, as evening approaches, they make ready to leave.

We see Anon's surprise at discovering a sauna, as well as the gentle smirk his reaction brings to Trixie's lips. With a wave of her hoof she sends him to enjoy it, saying she will indulge in the attentions of a professional masseuse while she can. The pony in question, a pink mare with a blue and violet mane, stands by her tables. One meant to hold a pony, the other covered in fancy bottles of unguents, odd tools, and sets of hoof-gloves, each of a different design, intended to help a creature without fingers reach all the right spots.

The masseuse, ensuring her charge is comfortably reclined, slips her hooves in to a pair of the special gloves, and sets to work on Trixie's supple flesh. She is very good; she must be to hold such a prestigious position, but she can not see inside Trixie's mind. She can not see that even with her great skill, and specialist's tools, Trixie finds her wanting, craving the responsive touch of fingers, over the dumb press of hooves. She can not see that as she plys her trade, and the Great and Powerful Trixie relaxes, her mind wanders to uncomfortable places.

But we can, and we do, seeing images of Fleur's smirking wink dance through her mind.

What if Fleur asks to him to herd with her, she wonders. No, she won't do that. She'll try to use him as a cooler, though. He's famous, exotic, and new, just the kind of thing Fleur would want as an accessory.

Suddenly, behind her closed eyes: Anon rutting Fleur, sitting, legs spread as she lies with her snout between them. He strokes her glowing horn and takes it into his mouth as she fellates him, his shaft passing between her lips as her tongue stretches to lick...

A noise, half grunt, half agonized moan, and the masseuse's touch lightens.

I love him. I love him. By Celestia, I love him.

We sit, and watch the emotions play across her face. She may be a monogamist, but that doesn't mean she's heartless, despite what many ponies would say. She loves him, and wants him to love her back.

But how can he love me if he doesn't know me?

She is a proud pony, and her high standards demand she say something, but what, and when?

He'll probably leave after he finds out what a freak I am...and I need this show. Tears well in her eyes, but they are small, and easily hidden.

I'll tell him after.

And so time passes. Shortly thereafter Anon returns from the sauna, and we depart through the wide halls of Canterlot Castle. They walk side by side, Trixie leaning heavily against him as we make our way back to their rooms.

“Anon,” she begins, as he closes the door. “Do you remember what I told you? About our sun and moon?” He nods. “Come with me.” She gently takes his hand between her teeth and guides him through the curtains. We follow, onto a balcony of marble and porphyry long enough to link the apartment's French doors like a corridor. The air is cool, the sky aflame, and here, on fine couches set amid ferns and ivy, Anon and Trixie sit expectantly.

“The servant said that courtyard over there connects to the throne room.”- she points -“If we're lucky, they might stand there tonight.”

“To move the sun?”

“Mm-hmm, the moon, too.”

She speaks again as the twilight deepens. “See, Anon? Those are the Princesses! Celestia is the white one, the other is Luna, her sister.”

“I remember, Blue. They're a lot bigger than...”

“Shhhh,” she chided, leaning more heavily against him. “Watch.” In the purple twilight, the larger ones horn glows brighter than any he'd seen, and the sun suddenly dips below the horizon.

“That's impossible!”

“I told you so. Keep watching.” After the sun sank it was the other pony's turn. Her horn too, flares, and the moon rises.

“But...”

She smirks, and playfully nips his arm. “Now, what did the Great and Powerful Trixie tell you?” He looks back and forth from the moon, to Trixie, and the retreating forms of the Princesses.

“But, even if the sun and moon did move, we wouldn't be able to see they had moved for...well, for a few minutes at least!”

“That doesn't make any sense, Anon.”

“But the light has to travel...”

“Magic.”

“But...”

“Magic,” she says, her stark mane stirring with the ivy in the night air. Anon closes his eyes in sudden pleasure, and a moment later Trixie's gardenia scent washes over us, too.

“Magic,” he whispers. Satisfied, she lays her head in his lap, then rolls on her back, smiling up at him. With a smile of our own we stand, and leave them in peace.

___________________________________


Two guardponies march in lockstep over the herringbone floors of Canterlot Castle; behind them strides a unicorn, and her human. They walk side by side, Trixie ever so slightly in front, her flank pressing lightly against him. Anon notices she changes her steps to match his, their hooves and boots clopping as one. What's come over her?

Even when the guards came to fetch them, she remained at his side. When they knocked , he watched the light in her eyes change, felt the tension spring to her muscles, but something was different. Despite their private familiarity, she was always the same prideful, demanding creature in public, but now, to him, her words are blunted, her touch is constant, and it fills him with unease.

Are the Princesses tyrants, he wonders. They didn't look all that bad, quite the contrary, they looked like visions of heaven. But his travels have taught him the phrase appearances can be deceiving, is even more important here than on Earth, and there is no shortage of rumors whispered about Princess Luna.

Shortly, their way is blocked by huge double doors, gilded and impossibly tall. Trixie shifts her weight, subtly leaning more firmly in to his thigh as a guard announces their arrival. Smoothly, quietly, they swing open.

A storybook scene stands before him. Tapestries and banners hang from the walls in a light which seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. Stained glass windows, dark against the night, yet somehow still vibrant, rise in frames as tall as the sky itself. A thick carpet paves a burgundy path all the way across the mirrored marble floor, to a great golden dias, itself crowned with a towering golden throne, as though by a unicorn's horn. The silver voice of running water sings clearly in the room's warm light.

Both Princesses sit waiting, Luna, atop the throne, as is customary at night, Celestia, on the dias beside her.

Trixie takes the lead. He follows behind her, stops where she stops, bows when she bows, and lets her do the talking. What a surprise for him to discover his little pony has some history with the Princesses: a former pupil, having attended Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns in her youth. Princess Celestia's smile betokens both remembrance, and happiness to see things going well in her whilom student's unorthodox path through life.

They want to know everything about Anon, of course. Who he is, where he comes from, and how he came to be in Equestria. He answers honestly, saying all they wish about himself and his world, but on the last he hesitates, saying that he doesn't know for sure, but often dreams of immaculate staircases in the deep forest, a throbbing buzz growing in his mind as he climbs them, then treacherous passages of thorns and fear. This seems to satisfy them, saying his lack of memory is itself a clue, as they know of a hedge whose ravenous spines tear more than just flesh.

Trixie tells the story of meeting Anon, feigning ignorance of the anger it sets straining the Royal's composure. Once her tale is told, Princess Celestia promises to “correct” the Diamond Dogs herself. She is politely vague about her meaning, but her face leaves little doubt of her sincerity, eliciting a shudder from Anon. He knows the Princess moves a star, united Equestria, and has held power against challengers both banal and eldritch for over a millennium. With the realization of her true, terrifying might, and what she could do with it if she chose, how could he not?

Finally, the sisters set a date for the show: one week hence, and with invitations to enjoy all that the castle and city of Canterlot have to offer, dismiss them. One week. A long time to wait, not long at all to plan and practice. It doesn't help that Trixie is distracted. She hides it well, but he knows her, and it hurts she won't confide in him.

Yet as well as the past months have taught Anon to read her, Trixie is better. A lifetime of deliberately cultivated perception merged with raw, aching love means his pain at her secrecy strikes her like a physical blow. She makes up for it as best she can, staying by his side, and holding him at night as she did before Fleur drove her poisoned horn into her heart. But she can see he doesn't understand her recalcitrance, and loathes herself for its necessity.

One day, while out in the city, they pass a flower cart. Trixie lingers for a moment, pulling Anon back. The open, innocent smile on her face is a kind normally reserved for sheltered ingenues, but she wears it anyway, even letting it grow, asking “Isn't that blue one pretty?” The florist's eyes widen, and she stares at them as though Trixie has said something decidedly outre.

It really is a pretty flower, the same powder blue as Trixie's coat. Anon opens his mouth to say so when she lets out a breathy, uncharacteristically nervous laugh, and trots on. Flower pony watches them go, looking for all Equestria as though Trixie had suddenly sprouted wings to compliment her horn.

Slowly, stressfully, the week passes. Now, they wait, hiding behind the curtains of both stage, and night, prepared to give the show of their lives. The call for the guests to rise as the Princesses take their seats goes out. Trixie rears, gently placing a fore hoof on his hip, and her muzzle behind his ear. “Whatever happens after this, Anon, this is our show tonight.” He looks at her strangely, eyes searching her own.

Is she crying?

Another nuzzle, quick as thought, and then her head, briefly on his chest. “Forever and always, yours and mine.”

From beyond the curtain, the Princess' own voice rings, “Let, the show begin!”