~A Jolly Good Evening~

The clock struck ten when the musicians decided that two-to-midnight called for a slower music than usual waltzes and set out to play a few adagios in a row, letting the mares and stallions in the ball room mingle freely, resting their legs from one dance after another.

Fancy Pants placed himself on a violet cushion in the corner of the room, a tall wine glass in his telekinetic grip, abstracting himself from the din of the party. He was old, but not too old; his pristine coat was still perfect, on condition that he groom it daily, but his moustache and mane were in constant need of dying, so that they wound remain a sky blue, and not an age-screaming silver grey. His tuxedo shirt was tucked neatly under his chin where it met the sourly-green bow tie. His collection of bow ties was something he was immensely proud of, just like a sportspony would be proud of a set of medals, or a writer would be proud of a stack of awards. When he put on a bow tie, every morning, after groom'n'breakfast, he changed. An old foalless divorced stallion, one of the few colossi of dying aristocracy, with a worn-out smile and grey photographs and rye whisky, he became a well-to-do, charming gentlecolt with a broad grin that radiated polite joy, tossing about jokes and stories, the anecdotes of his long and eventful life.

Looking about the wide, spacious ball room, the old unicorn couldn't help but think that, if this room was a cage - a place where aristocracy could mingle without bothering the modern youth - it was a damn good cage, with drinks and live music and cushions for old-timers like him to sit down on, panting under their breath, lest the ponies around see their little show of weakness.

Snatching a gin replacement for the wine from a passing servant, Fancy Pants indulged in pleasant, alcohol-soaked reminiscing. How long ago had it been when he first met Fleur right here, in this room? Ten, fifteen, twenty years ago? Seventeen, he reminded himself.

Seventeen years ago, he, a young prospering gentlecolt, had attented one of the first Grand Galloping Galas ever. Back then, the Gala was a nation-wide event, with the attendance of royalty and the grandeur of the Canterlot Palace. Now, it became a farce, a weak, shallow resemblance of the past glory.

She came up to him, seventeen years ago. Not to him, per se, but to the group of stallions he was indulging in coversation with. Unfortunately, you gentlecolts can't dance well nowadays, she said with a sad, expecting, challenging frown. His friends replied to the challenge; and failed miserably. She wasn't the best dancer in Equestria, but she could make any stallion lose control, break his steps and stop paying heed to the rhythm.

You stallions can't dance. Fancy Pants was eager to prove otherwise. If you pardon me, my lady, said he, stepping forth, I would like to ask you for a dance: since you are so proficient a dancer, I would be delighted if you could point out my mistakes.

Waltz after waltz, and the tango, and the mazurka - he watched with a delighted, polite smile as she lost control herself. When I'm dancing with you, she said, I have an impression that I'm not such a good dancer myself. You're young, he said. And beautiful. "I'm Fleur", she said. "I'm Fancy Pants."

Ponies come, and ponies go. Back in the present, Fancy Pants looked up, facing the middle of the room, where pairs waltzed around the floor, trying to accomodate their rusty moves with the adagio music. The stallion sighed, rubbing his temples, feeling his blood pulsing under his hooves. They didn't know any other dances nowadays. He had to remind himself of that. The "new" aristocracy were better off dead, non-existent, so that they wouldn't humiliate ponies like him.

How it all began. How? When, at what moment, at what terrible point of pony history did it go so wrong? When did this terrible decadence occur? Industry was marching across Equestria, leaving the good old feudal spirit deceased. There was no point in tradition, any more. The old was forgotten, and replaced by the new, as it should be. But why did it have to happen during his elderly years? Youngsters could adapt to the circumstances. Mature ponies couldn't.

Fancy Pants scrunched his face a little - just a little, so as not to get noticed - as he watched the young stallions lead their mares across the dance floor: right foreleg goes forth, left legs go left, a spin, left hindleg goes back, and spin, and repeat. That wasn't the way waltzes used to be: it was a mirror-like reflection of proper waltzing: left legs go forth, right foreleg goes right, and spin, and right legs go back, and left hindleg goes left, and spin, and repeat.

But honestly, who cared? They were dancing the night away, youngsters with no future, the new generation that refused the pleasure of modern life and stuck to the old way. In the only way they could.

The musicians took a pause, and Fancy Pants felt it was time for him to do some proper mingling. Dust off old connections, make some new acquaintances, grease the wheels of old business to get them rolling. However, his attention was commanded by a peculiar commotion near the stage: the classical musicians had packed their instruments and were exchanging pleasantries with an ensemble of four ponies... and a zebra. Zebras had rights too now, the unicorn had to remind himself. No longer servants, they could freely choose their path in life.

He didn't mind it, but the high society wasn't half as tolerant. The band blared out with swing immediately, and, while the older ponies frowned, the younger aristocrats trotted to the dancefloor happily, their mares giggling merrily as they were led into a jazz frenzy. Two tipsy stallions danced a bawdy swing in the middle of the dancefloor. The dancers around them stomped their hooves in a rhythmic applause.

Fancy Pants stood up and walked out of the room. While tolerant, he was not accepting. It hurt to see the new generation waste their lives like that. They didn't have a care in the world. There was no sense of strictness. There was no responsibility. They had their money and their had their titles. There was no hope of a meaningful future for them. Or, there was, Fancy Pants thought. If life meant party for them, all day long, then there was. But, that being the case, even the lowborn working youth seemed more appealing.

The chilly air assaulted the stallion's nostrils, the vernal breeze rushing through the dark street, circling the lampposts and moaning into the night, carrying soft touches of faraway rain. For a few moments, Fancy Pants just stood there, inhaling the night. Back in his day, this street would be crowded with carriages and evening-jacketed stallions and their long-dressed mares, and the youths with their ridiculous top hats and ties, and the musicians, and the postponies, and the servants, everywhere.

Now, the street was not the same. Their last fortification was taken. The castle fell, and was seized by the lawyers in their smart suits, and the businessponies with their calculated disdain, and the stargazers with their sheer awe of pain and inspiration, and the street skaters, and the trotters, and the plotters, and Celestia knows what else. The foundation was ruined, and, with it, the sand castle of the aristocracy fell. Because, aparently, building castles in the sand wasn't something that could last.

The unicorn's nocturnal contemplation was interrupted by a mare's yell that pierced the chilly air. In an instant, Fancy Pants was galloping towards the source of the sound, his legs working on sheer instinct, his heart leaping up to his throat. He wasn't as enduring as he used to be. Neither was he endurable. The cold asphalt hurt his hooves as he finally came to a stop in a dark alley.

"Let me go!" a mare shrieked, trying to free herself from a stallion's grasp. It was dark. Fancy Pants couldn't make out the forms, not to mention the colour, of the ponies, but this was even better. He was getting older. He was getting weaker. A surprise attack would yield more fruit than an attempt at reviving his boxing techniques.

Which came in handy as he charged at the stallion with his horn, leaving a sharp wound on his side. A few hoofstrikes to the legs, and the assaulter fell down, breathing heavily. Fancy Pants really hoped he was unconscious. He couldn't be sure of his ability to fight this stallion fair, and he couldn't run away.

A drop of blood fell from his horn as he turned to the mare gallantly, offering her his hoof. "It is all right, my lady. This ruffian won't  hurt you any more. Now, let me just call the police, and-"

The mare slapped him on the cheek. And again. And again.

He stood there, his bravado fading and the polite smile vanishing in the rain that travelled to the empty street to pour its waters of life freely to finally give unto him that is athirst. And Fancy Pants was athirst, and not only for water. For years, he had been maintaining a perfect face. For years, he had tried to make a name for himself. Didn't he deserve a little gratitude? Even now? In the wake of what he did for this mare?

"You idiot!" the mare roared, kneeling next to the stallion. "What have you done to my husband?!" She glared at the silent unicorn. Her mane was amber. Her eyes were radiating fury. Her lips were dripping venom.

"A stallion who treats his mare in such a way should not go unpunished," Fancy Pants dropped, his confidence dropping, his posture sulking, and his hope for appreciation jumping down into an abyss from the highest cliff.

"What are you, a knight?" the mare barked, tending to her husband. "Well, lemme tell you something: chivalry is dead! There ain't knights any more!" She gritted her teeth. "And there shouldn't be." She turned towards Fancy Pants, her eyes staring at him painfully. "Do you imagine what he'll do to me once we get home?" She raised her voice. "Can you even imagine it?!" The mare dropped to the ground. "You might as well have killed him. Because he's gonna kill me for sure."

Fancy Pants stood there, staring at the scene silently.

"But you wouldn't. Because you're a goody-horseshoes knight! And now I have to reap what you have sown!" She collapsed, her head falling onto her husband's side. "Go away. Go away before I call the police."

Fancy Pants looked at the sad earth pony mare. She looked so old, here, weeping over her stallion, knowing very well that only the worst could ever come from life. How would she sleep? Fancy Pants wondered. Would she sleep at all? Neither would he. Ever again.

He turned, and walked away, and walked the path back to the shining building, and came in, putting on a smile as he wiped his horn with a handkerchief. Sliding into the ball room, he noticed the dancers settle down, as well as the band that was glancing at the clock expectantly, a silence filling the room.

Fancy Pants placed himself on a cushion, downing a glass of something. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was ready for another drink. Whispers and murmurs danced  across the dancefloor, reaching his ears in tattered remnants of the initial conversations.

The clock struck twelve.

A roar of a thunderous applause rushed through the crowd, with ponies wishing each other a happy New Year and exchanging pleasant remarks. An old mare next to him wished Fancy Pants a Happy New Year. He thought he wished her health and happiness. Wealth was already her present companion. Health was her companion no longer. Happiness would never be. Or was it not about her, but about him?

The band took up their instruments and the zebra reached the microphone. The ponies around hissed to each other, and the bandmates quickly found a replacement singer. A pony this time. The band beat the drums slowly, and played the fife lowly, but this was no death march. Or, maybe it was, in a sense. The song resonated across the room, with ponies taking up their neighbours' hooves. Fancy Pants backed down to avoid this show of union and took a glass.

Shid auld acqit'nce be firgot an' ne'er brought to mynd?

Shid auld acqit'nce be firgot an' auld lang syne?

The singer's accent reminded the stallion of his foalhood days in Scoltland, with the whole family gathering around the dinner table, holding hooves and singing together. It was the only thing he remembered, with his uncle cutting the salad for everypony, and his aunt always telling the guests to get a second helping.

If his foalhood was this bright, surely the future could be bright too? Not his future, of course. The future of the youth. Auld acquaintance would be forgot, and never brought to mynd, but a new generation would surely rise. Would they plunge themselves into a similar abyss as he had? Or would they prosper? Depite everything. Or, maybe, in spite of everything.

A well-dressed earth pony stallion sat next to the uncorn, checking his neatly styled mane before sitting down. He took a glass of wine. "What's the matter, old chum? You always enjoyed my parties, didn't you?" He smiled. "Aren't you a little down in the sewers?"

"Perish the thought." Fancy Pants looked around himself. The aristocrats were holding hooves, maybe for the first time this year. It was the first time this year, he realised. The new year had officially begun. "It's a jolly good evening, old chap."

That mare had probably made her way back home by now. Her husband may even have already come round. He may be even beating her up now, Fancy Pants thought with mild acceptance. All over Equestria, stallions were probably drinking themseves into a frenzy and beating up each other, and mares, and foals. And thieves were stealing, and thugs were killing, and the band played waltzing Mathilda as countless stallions cheated on their wives, no punishment attacked. And the liquor-soaked nights grew into painful mornings. And the sun still rose and set every day.

Fir auld lang syne, ma jo~

Fir auld lang syne~

We'll tak' a cup o' kyndness yet~

Fir auld lang syne~

Fancy Pants closed his eyes. "A jolly good evening."