First glimmers of the sun radiated opulently through the open doorway. However, this sunrise seemed different, the usual soft beams of the gently dawning morning were absent; alternatively, harsh rays, laden with an almost passive aggressive intensity were left in their stead. Neophyte Ferous couldn’t remember any mention of a forecasted heatwave. His eyes blinked open, suddenly panicked: come to think of it, he couldn’t remember much of anything. He was prone, his muzzle lying several inches away from a brick wall that smelled faintly of must. In a poorly planned out moment, he tried to spring to his feet, but barely managed to get a hoof firmly on the floor before collapsing, head throbbing like a Draconian war drum.

The life of a Royal Guard was difficult, demanding, and anonymous; thus, drinking was more of an eventuality than a choice, if one planned to cope with the vocation over a long period of time. As Ferous was fairly young, he was committed to pacing himself, opting for sarsaparilla as opposed to the harder ciders at the “mandatory” Royal Guard offtime outings. Or at least that had been his original intention. Something had obviously compromised that little personal goal, and not being able to remember what exactly that ‘something’ was had begun to drive him crazy. Momentarily opening his eyes confirmed that the ceiling was still spinning. Not a good feeling. The panic welling up in his chest was now gone, replaced with dread. Most guards had never missed a day in the span of thirty or forty years of service, and now he could have possibly missed his shift within a petty fraction of that now insurmountable norm.

‘It’s not about that though, is it?’ he thought, admonishing himself. Memory of his previous attempt to stand was still (throbbing) fresh in his mind, so he resigned himself to taking it a hoof at a time. Carefully, so as not to aggravate his condition, Ferous slowly shifted his snout to the other side, exchanging the ceiling for a more informative view of the rest of the room.

His blood ran cold. This was no bar, or bittersweet aftermath of a party gone out of control. This was a war zone, of nightmarish implications. Royal Guards of nearly every variety lay strewn about the room. He couldn’t see any visible wounds marring their previously well-groomed coats. But the dark pools beneath them painted a chilling picture.

More disquieting was the presence of several equally disabled opliptera. ‘Never call them bat-ponies:’ It was one of the first unofficial lessons he had learned on duty. There were only a couple of the dark winged Night Guard present, as opposed to the twenty something Royal Guards strewn about the room. Even a small presence of the Night Guard was significant when the opliptera’s smaller overall numbers were accounted for. Unfortunately this just made the scene look worse, as the Night and Royal Guard did not often collude: the Royal Guard typically handled the ‘heavy lifting’ oriented tasks, while the Night Guard was more suited to espionage. The workplace segregation was really more due to the timing of patrol shifts than any sort of prejudice. Infighting was unlikely, unless...

‘...unless Nightmare Moon has returned, and we are on the precipice of the next great civil war’

His pulse began to race, as the imagined scenario became more and more inflated
‘The Night Guard is more than competent. If they ambushed us, caught us by surprise, they could have pushed us back here- wait, speaking of which, where am I...?’

Disoriented, he surveyed the room for the first time, as his eyes were previously fixated on the apparent orgy of violence, and noticed the lack of windows, the only source of light coming from the open door. If there were no windows, why was there so much broken glass...?
‘Oh no...’ the realization was almost more horrifying than the possibility of civil war. This particular clusterclop had nothing to do with violence. At least, not yet. He never thought he would have preferred war as an alternative to anything, but he was now fairly certain that he and at least half of the guard would be banished before the shift was over. Ferous face-hoofed, as his now unwanted memories of the preceding night returned in an embarrassing jumble of awkward recollections.

‘I am invisible, understand, simply because Ponies refuse to see me.’
It was a long running joke in the guard, but one that often rang true. It was amazing what certain ponies would say within earshot of a statue-esque guard, though such indiscretions were almost exclusive to the upper class. Outside of the Royal Princesses, nobles of Canterlot did not hold much power in the modern day. In many ways, they were mere remnants of a long-antiquated system, their titles a faint reflection of standing and power that had once belonged to their ancestors. You would never know it from the way they talked, delusions of grandeur and an almost innate narcissism would make such a deduction difficult. It was this inflated personal image, however, that often led them to voice dissenting and occasionally rebellious sentiments openly at the castle’s many social gatherings. Anything borderline treasonous was extremely uncommon, but useful information was often gleaned. Celestia had made the point in every initiation speech for almost a thousand years; the Royal Guard were not simply her protectors, they were equally valuable as an extension of her eyes and ears.

The origins of ‘the network’ had simply been a game among guards to challenge each other’s observational abilities as well as pass the time. But over the long period of peace the guards began to realize the wisdom in Celestia’s words, gradually becoming invaluable intelligence assets: memorizing who was who among the nobility became the norm, along with paying extra attention to potential POI’s (Ponies of Interest.) They often talked among themselves when off duty, comparing, sharing, and correlating intelligence for accuracy’s sake (...It’s not gossip if you’re doing it out of duty.)

This efficiency was most advantageous during times of peak activity at the Castle, gathering a decent amount of intelligence on a large number of targets. During downtime, however, there was a tendency for the Royal Guard to get somewhat... fixated... on the significantly smaller number of targets. However, in the months leading up to the new Royal Seamstress’ arrival, there had been almost no visitors to the castle whatsoever. The only source of entertain- er, intelligence related activities in preceding weeks, had been the never ending games of ‘Locate Luna;’ which admittedly, was not devoid of entertainment. The Royal Guard Thinktank inadvertently killed that particular challenge the following month with an article it released in its monthly scientific journal: “Patterns in Anarchy: The Use of Statistics and Past Coordinates to Accurately Locate the Resting Place of Nocturnal Equine Deities”
In the following month, there was an unexplained decline in the journal’s popularity, directly correlated with high surge in abacus purchases (statistical study provided by RG: The Economare.)

Needless to say, the Royal Seamstress’ arrival marked the end of a very slow period within the Royal Guard, and they were rather... vigilant... in their observations. The first impression of the White Unicorn was not particularly flattering, as she bore a striking resemblance to the loose-lipped nobles the Guard found to be endlessly amusing. However, that impression was discarded the moment she passed out on a pile of dresses in the archive, the aftermath of a twenty hour research binge. There was an incident where she spent hours staring at a single dress: not touching it, or sketching, just staring. Almost an entire day had passed, and the curious white unicorn hadn’t taken a single break, not even to eat. The on-duty stallion became concerned to the point of breaking regulation to approach her, waving a hoof in front of her face; he was thoroughly startled when she lethargically waved back, her eyes glazed over, collapsing again.

The mare was obviously insane. A following encounter in the dead of night did nothing to alleviate the growing concern; instead, several guards on duty during the incident had described her as ‘terrifying’: the sing-song voice calling out for the princess, combined with glowing eyes and an ever spinning tape measure was an unsettling image, one that would haunt Nightmare Moon herself. Had Luna not been actively looking for Celestia alongside her, they probably would have arrested the crazy unicorn just to be safe... as soon as their hooves had stopped shaking.

Neophyte Ferous had come to disagree with this consensus, however. He was often assigned to the workshop during the weeks that followed the Royal Seamstress’ initial research phase. It was striking how much happier she seemed designing as opposed to researching. The research was important to her, undoubtedly, but it seemed to be too much of a draining affair to be enjoyable. She often appeared to skip around the workroom, doing a little dance when she made a ‘breakthrough,’ (or whatever the fashion ponies called it when they overcame an obstacle.) It was endearing, and completely conflicted with his previously formed image of her as a “moody genius” He wasn’t alone in this slowly changing opinion, as several other Guards on rotation had noticed the improvement of her moods.

But that was before the “wine-cellar” incident: Previously, the Royal Guard had no real operation that had gone “awry.” Part of it was the nature of their station in a time of peace, but most preferred to think of it as superior individual self-discipline. The Night Guard had the draconian “sea of swine” debacle as a black smudge on their previously perfect service record. Even mentioning it within earshot of an opliptera would earn anypony a death glare. Several years prior to her banishment, Luna had been working independently of Celestia, trying to destabilize the Draconian empire. She had ordered her Foreign Night Guards to “effectively, but indirectly” end the current Draconian regime. The focus of the operation became circulating pro-vegan propaganda among the farm life, and as they had hoped, it stimulated an uprising which aptly named itself the “vegan alliance,” a motley crew of pigs, cows, and chickens, rising up against the tyranny of the dragons. However, suffice it to say that that the rest of the operation did not go as planned, and the rest is not to be spoken of in decent company. The Royal Guard’s impending “wine-cellar” incident, however, would change that status quo entirely.

Apparently, the pony who coined the phrase “seeing red” was seriously simplifying the reality of the condition. Rarity wasn’t just seeing red. She was seeing carmine, amaranth, scarlet, rose, ruby, an irritating auburn, and a very pissed off looking burgundy. Admittedly, Celestia had the right to be displeased with her. It had taken five seconds of self-reflection spent in her own quarters to see that, to realize the careful words she had spoken might have sounded like a polite rejection to a pony who has, over time, become accustomed to other ponies trying to avoid causing any sort of offense.

“I... I can’t. And it’s not that I don’t, or do love you. I feel like I have a responsibility as your stylist, I have to retain objectivity. Otherwise, my bias may color my judgement, and that would compromise my entire purpose here. I just feel like I can’t answer that when everything is up in the air. “

The thin smile given in response to the platitude was one of dark amusement, an expression she had never seen from Celestia before. It was the look of somepony taking small comfort in the humor of a secret irony; one found amongst the death throes of a fading dream. The slightly vulnerable pony that had revealed herself to Rarity a moment before was now gone, replaced by the unreadable, sagely alicorn.

“I see. I believe I must concur. Forgive me for toying with your resolve.”

“Celestia-”

“Are you feeling well enough to go back to your quarters now, Lady Rarity?”

The unicorn bowed her head at the barely veiled command, excusing herself quietly

So yes, Celestia had plenty of reasons to be upset and dissatisfied with that exchange. Firstly, it was complete horseapples: Some part of her was deeply perturbed from the encounter with Discord, and her mind was still foggy. But to bring that up in response would have been even worse: ‘I’m sorry, Celestia, but the moronic amalgamation of mixed body parts frozen in the statue out back says you’re keeping secrets from me. Since he’s always been so honest and straightforward, and has no motivation to deceive me whatsoever, I’m taking his word over yours.’ Yeah. That would have gone over perfectly.

Discord wasn’t even the root of the problem, though. It was the one word that threw a kink into everything. Celestia was beautiful, intelligent, wise, and utterly enthralling. The alicorn had rescued her, cleaned her up, and taken her to bed... and goddess knew (no pun intended) that Rarity’s libido had been running around in circles for weeks without an outlet.

Anything, almost any arrangement of syllables would have rendered her powerless against Celestia, had it not involved that cursed word:

‘My appreciation of your skill is only rivaled by my desire for your body, my dearest Rarity...’
‘How could I possibly refuse?”

‘You are now my slave, and I would have you pleasure me!’
‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Rarity... pardon me for being unladylike, but I simply can't restrain myself from burying my snout in that sweet, sweet flank of yours and praying I never have to come up for air.’
‘Noblesse oblige, my princess

Rarity... do you love me?

It was impossible to give an answer, when she wasn’t sure she understood the nature of the question. Love was a longtime nemesis to Rarity, she desired it, worked for it, fantasized about it, yet it had always remained hopelessly out of reach. Now it suddenly presented itself, blatantly waving its flank in her face, before she’d truly worked out her feelings. She lusted for Celestia undoubtedly, but she had been so absorbed in her work she hadn’t had time to evaluate anything beyond the physical yearning. Behind that doubt there was a growing list of gnawing fears, each individually followed by its own chastisement

‘What if she’s dying?’
It shouldn’t matter. You’re supposed to be a romantic, not a realist.

‘What if she’s hiding something?’
Then you build a bridge and get over it.

‘That’s not the issue, aren’t successful relationships built on a foundation of trust?’
Foundations can always be reinforced

‘Isn’t this too fast?’
She’s lived for thousands of years, you think she hasn’t figured out when to wait and when to act?
‘I- Wait.. Did you just answer my question with a question?’
It was rhetorical, idiot.

Rarity shook her head. The inner monologue wasn’t helping, not to mention becoming increasingly obtuse. Even as she was lost in thought her hooves had started to take her back to Celestia’s quarters. She needed to say something, anything. Needed to apologize, make it right somehow. Despite her carefully chosen words, she deeply regretted several gaping omissions she should have thought to include in her verbal backpedal. She didn’t just respect Celestia, in many ways she had come to adore her. Love was too difficult for her to be able to define yet, that was true, and there were a lot of unanswered questions, but Rarity needed to at least let her know the depth of her-

Of course she felt it then: Heartbreak. Impossible without preexisting love, even if it’s previously undetectable. The realization was sickening. Rarity watched helplessly down the hallway, noting mirthlessly that it was remarkably similar to her first day in the castle, only the circumstances were reversed. Luna wasn’t with her, and the light pink mare wasn’t leaving Celestia’s quarters in a panicked rush. She was wrapped in an embrace with the White Alicorn, who stroked her blonde mane gently. Rarity had seen the other mare several times around the castle, but made no effort to introduce herself, perhaps she hadn’t really wanted to know. Celestia trotted into the room and out of sight. The mare turned to follow, but stopped, seeing Rarity out of the corner of her eye. Her emotions already a wreck, Rarity waited, bracing herself for the incoming look of triumph, cruel leer, or sadistic smile. Surprisingly there was none of the above. The mare hesitated, looked.... almost regretful?... and then she was gone, door shut behind her.

She looked at a nearby clock on the wall. Only a few minutes had passed since Celestia’s ‘confession.’
‘so half an hour... half an hour is all it takes to replace me?’ there was a white hot anger in her belly. Good; buck crying, she was sick of it. Time to visit an old friend

The Century old merlot had quite a kick. It wasn’t the oldest bottle of the collection, the oldest was nearly a thousand, but she wasn’t near tactless enough to drink something so valued it had its own display shelf, even if she was positively seething.
‘A lady through and through’ she thought with morose irony, downing the filled glass in one gulp. The Royal wine-cellar was certainly living up to her expectations, the taste smooth, yet potent. But truthfully she didn’t give a foal’s flank about the taste. She had lined up five bottles, with no plans of stopping until her head hit the table. It wasn’t until the Unicorn finished the fifth, and levitated five more bottles over that the several Royal Guards (who had gathered at the end of their shift, watching from the doorway) tried to intervene. She waved them off, muttering something incomprehensible. Finally, one of the guards, a unicorn stallion, tired of asking nicely. Attempting to levitate her out of the wine-cellar by force was his first mistake. Drunk Rarity had a unsettling penchant towards manipulation:

“yep, your right. heh *hic* I’ve had so much I probably can’t even lift this bottle.” The thousand year old wine left its display shelf, spinning in the air precariously. Instantly realizing he’d been caught in a trap, the guard relented, releasing her from his magic. He swallowed, unable to take his eyes off swirling wine bottle, likely imagining his future career crashing to pieces alongside the glass of the broken treasure.

“What do you want?”

She wrinkled her nose at him in defiance, her speech slurred, “Company, you silly stallion. I need a drinking buddy. In exchange, if you, and whoever takes your place when you’ve failed, matches me drink for drink, when I pass out, *hic* you can take me back to your room.”

He looked at her in disbelief. Such fighting words from such a tiny mare. She had to be close to her limit already with five bottles of wine. The Royal Guards could hold their liquor, and she hadn’t just challenged him, she’d challenged the entire guard, practically holding a priceless treasure hostage.
What was it the opliptera said? “whatever is necessary?”
With that particular misguided (and misquoted) thought, the stallion made his second mistake

“Challenge accepted. On one condition, we switch to the hard-stuff. High-proof cider, no need to waste her majesties wine. I’ll send one of my ponies to go and get it. It was an early shipment, but it was still originally for the hooves festival’s love bowl punch: so if we win, you’ll pay to replace it, and vice versa. Deal?”

The mare threw her head back and cackled, far too delighted by the turn of events for his comfort, the sound was almost wicked. When her frigid blue eyes returned to his, a shiver ran down his spine. Suddenly she was the very picture of calm and collected, the drunk mare act from just moments before completely dropped, the slur of her speech vanishing entirely
“I will abide by those conditions.”

Rarity was no stranger to unrequited love. Or alcohol.
It was a massacre.

AN: Hi all, a slightly extended authors note today since I didn’t bother to put one in last time. First and foremost, I wanted to thank Vargras for giving me permission to borrow a character of his, neophyte Ferous, in this chapter. The character is from his story: What Must Be Done. I wanted to do an extended segment with the Royal Guard, so his one-shot was invaluable for both research and as a point of reference. I didn’t want to incorporate some of his elements without properly crediting him, thus the guest star. “Ferous, opliptera, and the rank neophyte-(I think)” are all either coined or incorporated by his work. What Must Be Done is serious in tone, but offers a fascinating take on bat-ponies in general. Also, if you’re new to fimfiction (like me), or just living under a rock, he does the best apple-twi stuff out there, if that’s up your alley.

Anyways, I apologize for the tease/cliffhanger last chapter, but come on, we can’t resolve conflict before we get to the actual conflict right? ...right? That would just be wrong. A cookie to whoever catches the numerous (2) literary references in this chapter. Also, a thank you to PrettyMonster for the, *ahem,* flanking assistance. My finals are coming up, so it may be a while (week-ish) before I’m able to upload another chapter. As always, constructive criticism is welcome.

Oh, by the way, in the next chapter you’ll be meeting Rarity’s dance instructor.
Hint: She’s light pink