Rarity lays on her cool wooden floor, head resting atop her stallion’s shoulder and body nestled next to his. His arm drapes around her withers, one of her forelegs across his chest. Her horn lights to remove her boots and her equipment, and he barely stirs. Watching him, she can’t help but wonder.

Did I do the right thing? Was standing up for this creature, whom I barely know, worth risking the enmity of my friends and family?

Her eyes stay open, not quite as exhausted as he must be, for her stallion seems to have already fallen asleep. At least, his eyes are closed, his breathing steady, if slightly ragged, and his head rests against the hard wooden floor without complaint.

Has it ever bothered me before, that somecreature was unfairly denied hospitality in our dear Ponyville? Have I ever noticed? I cannot recall an example. Is that merely because our fair ‘defenders’ have been most effective at their duties, and have never given me the opportunity to be introduced? Have those unfairly excluded not complained, much like he does not complain about the lack of a pillow?

Her muscles clench, tightening as if to ward against the injustice. That or the cold night air, the staccato taps of rain against roof just beginning. Yet she fears she will find no comfort in cozy comforters, no solace in swaddling sheets - even makeshift ones.

I find that, without his stoic nature to hold as an example, I would require all manner of accommodations and amenities to be comfortable. Yet, is that something I strive for? To allow the world to dictate how I may act or feel, to graciously accept any burden placed on me?

One at a time, starting with her withers, Rarity focuses on relaxing her tense muscles. Sometimes with a shudder, sometimes easily, she works her way down her legs, willing herself to let go of the tension. Her eyes close as she cuddles closer to her stallion, releasing every tightly held spot but one: her marehood remains sealed as best she can, trapping his seed inside her.

Trite as the question might be, what would Celestia do? How would I best exemplify the Tenets of Harmony? To be Honest with my feelings seems to conflict with Kindness, yet sometimes the harsh act is the necessary one, and to give in merely prolongs the suffering. As is Generosity; it is neither gentle nor fair for any creature to go through such a harrowing experience. Of Loyalty, Laughter, and Friendship: none are in opposition, yet remain important to keep in mind.

As she drifts off to sleep her horn lights one last time, dragging the cloth section of her mining garb across her, her legs tucking against her body.

At some point in the night she dreams of a solitary star, set against a bell shaped section of fabric.

*

Applejack rests her head on her hooves as she watches the path to Ponyville from her open bedroom window. She started in this position when Doug left, and after her evening chores were done she returned. If one didn’t know she had gotten up, they might have thought she never moved. She can barely see through the pounding rain, hoping Doug wasn’t foalish enough to try to make it back to her.

And yet another part of her does wish that; that her stallion, intelligent as he is, would risk the rain and the cold to be at her side that night. She flinches as lightning courses through the storm above, and shudders at the rolling peals of thunder. And still there is no sign of him.

Her head lifts up just slightly, the barest needed to pull a hoof away, then sinks even lower without the support. Her hoof slowly, yet deliberately, travels down her belly until it rests between her teats, lightly pressing.

She feels nothing.

She pushes harder, her whole shoe depressing into her belly.

Still nothing.

She’s glad there’s nopony there to ask about the wetness in her eyes, because ‘the rain keeps splashing in them’ wouldn’t have worked, even if it is true. Well, it’s mostly splashing on her muzzle, but the same principle applies, right?

Because she had asked around. Discreetly, when she was working the apple stand in town. About what it felt like when you were pregnant.

Most of the mares said something about getting tired quicker, especially if you were doing something with your mark, or if it was intensely magical. That was good; she feels tired, even if it was another day she had to put in a couple extra hours, especially with that ‘break’ she took in the morning. More tired than usual? Probably, and she smiles at that.

Some of the mares mentioned cravings, and Applejack hadn’t noticed any, but that wasn’t supposed to happen until later, anyway. Others mentioned that their heat was gone, and that was certainly true. Problem was, that also fit with what the doctor said might have happened, and her smile fades.

But every mare mentioned a feeling. They had trouble putting a hoof on what it felt like; some claimed it was like something that didn’t belong inside you, except that wasn’t quite right - it was something whose ultimate purpose lay outside you, and your temporary connection, however special, was just that: ultimately due to be severed, so that they could go on and live their own lives. Others mentioned it was like a splinter, lodged inside a foreleg, and they could feel the discomfort with every movement. Those were the mares who had more turbulent relationships with their fillies, the ones who moved out early. The last group said it was like their special somepony was still inside them; they loved each other dearly, yet as much as they didn’t want to admit it, the member inside them was foreign, and would need to leave at some point. Those were the mares whose foals stayed in Ponyville.

She hadn’t asked around long after that. There were probably other perspectives, but she couldn’t bear to hear them.

Because she feels nothing. Then and now.

Applejack takes a final look outside before she pulls her battered Stetson off her head, resting it next to her bed. She trudges over, kicking the covers off. She could never stand being too hot at night, though she’d never complain about Doug getting her sweaty. She lays down, staring out the darkened window, barely noticing her eyelids drooping and sleep taking her away.

Her dreams are mercifully absent that night.

*

High above the center of Ponyville, equidistant to every cloud, floats Rainbow Dash’s cloudominium. The pegasus tosses and turns with every pulse of lightning. It doesn’t seem to matter that the storm is well underneath her - in fact, even if she takes her mobile home all the way to the two sticks it’s rated, she still feels those shocks, that fidgety feeling that never lets her sit still.

It didn’t help that her heat had been nipping at her the entire day like a winter icestorm. But she couldn’t bring herself to go back to Doug, or anypony else for that matter. She held off on her practices - but just for today, and if she didn’t feel better she’d get Doug to help again, one way or the other. She’d do whatever it takes to make it with the Wonderbolts!

At some point during her dreams of speeding through twisting cloudtunnels and slamming on the brakes through treacherous fog banks an image flashes. A single wing, outstretched, set against a backdrop of a solitary cloud.

Her restless kicks continue as the storm rages below.

*

Filthy Rich looks above his reading glasses as his two mares enter the bedroom. His neutral gaze flickers, almost turning worried. “That’s a look I haven’t seen before.”

“I should hope not,” returns Spoiled Rich with a wink. She poses, lifting a hind leg to display one of four Rarity-made silver stockings. Next to her Silver Set is similarly attired, though her four pink stockings complement her silvery coat more than they exactly match her lead mare. Silver Set takes the opposite direction, ready to encircle and ensnare the stallion in their sights.

An equanimous smile creeps across Filthy Rich’s muzzle. He carefully folds his glasses, setting them on the bedside table. He notes his place in The Razor of Dreams, deliberately slow as he places it beside his glasses. He coolly regards the two, tapping his hooves together. His voice is controlled, not a hint of the lust everypony knows he harbors showing. “So.”

“We thought,” Spoiled Rich states with a flick of her styled purple mane towards Silver Set, the sharp tips bobbing for several seconds longer, “that we might impress upon the town how potent and virile a stallion you are.”

“The town.” Filthy Rich’s hooves clop together a final time as he grins, the kind of grin he gets when he has just acquired a new contract with the Apples. He makes no effort to disguise his growing enthusiasm in his reclined position. He raises one eyebrow as his face turns slightly to the side. “And you both wish to apply?”

Both mares grin in return, their tails flagging as their flanks twitch.

“I should warn you,” Filthy Rich states, pushing forward and rolling onto his hooves, “that the application process for such a position is long and quite extensive.”

Much later that night, Spoiled Rich briefly dreams of a dull blue tiara, while Silver Set envisions a dual heart emblazoned spoon.

*

In the middle of a paper cage, which rests upon an impressive mahogany desk shaped like a circle missing a quarter (many ponies have likened it to a cake, missing a Princess worthy portion; others remark how efficient it is to have so much surface area in easy reach), which sits in the middle of a white room accented in muted yellow and two tones of orange, a gold-shod hoof raises a cup of boiling coffee to take a carefully metered sip. It would have to last; Inky Rose has to study, as all her interns do. She thinks, perhaps for the ten thousandth time, that it would be nice to have a dedicated team of assistants around the clock, but it is from no fault of theirs.

Her horn is lit a soft gold, yet another ream of paper flipping page after page. A single report pulls out; the flow of paper slows by half as she studies the latest Ponyville Incident Report. Her student’s version of the event was woefully inadequate, though not unexpectedly so. And, sadly, she could say the same for the treatment of her Friendship Lesson.

A previously unidentified creature spotted near the Everfree Forest, though? Hardly unique. Except this one claimed to not be from the Everfree, and was capable of making such a claim? That bore cause to be… not quite concerned, as the Incident Report exonerated him, but certainly regarded as a curiosity.

Solaris Invictus, The Mistress of the Sun, or as she is commonly known to her little ponies, Princess Celestia, slides the paper back into place. Just one more thing to keep track of, a grain of salt dissolved into the ocean. The papers resume their hurried rush, eyes rapidly scanning through each. She stifles a yawn as she gets to the end, chancing a look out her balcony. Luna’s Moon shines brightly, as it always does. How she wishes she could reshape her desk to match her Sister’s mark.

The stack flips over as it slides to the end, another taking its place. She would get a full night’s rest when she is dead, or when her Sister is at her side, whichever came second. But for now, she must continue her search.

Next Chapter: Ch. 50 - Essentia Sanguis Estimated time remaining: 9 Hours, 14 Minutes