"What have you done?"

I ignored the lordling and went straight for my flask. I took a sip -- bitter and burning, just as usual -- and I threw it back on the table. I liked the feeling, that feverish excitement after my talk with the Prince, almost like a buzz of the arena and I didn’t want to mute it with the drink.

"Miss Shimmer!"

"I did as you asked, Fancy," I snapped. "The princeling is all riled up. At this rate will be ready to take me to the Idol by tomorrow."

“I meant the heir! I had time to think about what happened, and it shouldn’t have. I have never seen Gideon like this before. What he did to Gwyr, the way he behaved after...He’s like a tercel possessed, almost rabid. And those twitches... -- there’s something wrong with him, and I can’t but think it’s your hooves doing. What have you done?!”

"Ah, yes," I said smugly, almost giggling, "That's what fear does to a pony. Or an eagle, I suppose. Threaten to take away what they value most, what defines them and they turn berserk, willing to do anything to get it back, pay any price. It is his flaw, the chink in the armour of Prince’s soul."

"So it was you! What. Did. You. Do?!"

"I did nothing." I did not like his tone. "His brother, on the other hoof.... poison, or else a curse, something to take away his brother's power, sap his strength, and well, the results speak for themselves. Weakness brings fear, fear leads to anger. As we have seen.” I looked pointedly at my empty glass, but the Count did not seem to notice.

"I knew brothers like that once," I added when he said nothing. "Envy and adoration, love that borders on self-hatred. All it takes is just one little push."

“You stupid girl!" The Count hissed. He was seething with anger of his recent humiliation, barely contained within his eerily calm tone. "You rank, arrogant amateur--!"

He stopped when he felt the velvet of the fan at his neck, steel tickling under his chin. "Take care of your words, milord,” I said coldly. “Some parts of you Equestria needs..." Another fan came up behind and below, "others I merely like."

“Miss Shi--” I stood up, my steel at his throat, my magic flooding all over his body, reminding him just how much stronger I was. “Be reasonable! Now is not the time.”

“Apologize.”

“What?”

"Remember this:" I said, tightening my magic grip, "I am stronger than you." my magic constricted around him, as I swatted away his feeble counter-spell. "Faster than you." A fan drew blood from his throat. "More powerful than you. And there is nothing you can do to stop me."

His irises like pinpricks as he fought for every breath, mesmerised by the vision of death that was me.

"And I will not be treated like a misbehaving child. Are we clear?"

"I apologize." Weakness - in every motion, in every single breath, same as I have seen before -- but what else could I expect? He was a Canterlot nobling after all. He was just a little pony.

I released him.

"But you must understand, Miss Shimmer,” he took a swig of wine to calm down, to drown out the whiny notes in his voice before he put it back under control, “You’ve overstepped and made the position untenable. We still have no solution for our common problem -- and we're no closer to preserving the peace between Griffonstone and Equestria than when we started." His voice was calm and his hooves did not tremble, but there were still the leaden notes of fear, the snivelling, fawning overtones in his voice.

The fear of the monster, of the raving, unhinged psychopath who could do anything with no provocation, whom you’re powerless to stop -- I knew that well. I packed away my fans and reached for the snuffbox. "And it's only a matter of time before they figure out the reason for the Prince's ailment."

"Precisely, Miss Shimmer, you understa--"

"And once they do, whoever they find shall be the focus of Prince's ire."

"It'd be High Treason," the Count said still aghast, "or, in your case, casus belli. With how he behaved today, he’ll go after you. No matter who tries to protect you -- me, Galad, Celestia herself -- they will throw them off the highest wall of Gormenghast, and then there will be war like there has never been before or ever will be again!"

"So someone else will have to take the blame." I raised Galad's feather.

He stared.

"This is the wall that will break the Prince. Even if he breaks it first -- just as you said."

“What you propose--” his hoof trembled when he brought the wine to his lips, gulping it nervously down. “It’s too much. Sunset, he may end up dead. If you do that, if you keep provoking the heir, Galad - that griffon, that person may be dead before the end of the week.”

I looked at him, bereft of words for a second, unable to process the sheer folly of what he said.

“This is war. Enemies die.”

“It’s not war yet, Miss Shimmer, that’s what we’re trying to--”

“‘The Statesman who, knowing his instrument to be ready, and seeing War inevitable, hesitates to strike first is guilty of a crime against his country.’” I let my history books speak for me again, interrupting his babbling. “Sometimes it’s most cruel to be kind -- you know that milord, you must know that. The war is already here, and we must strike first.”

He looked away. “I will think about it,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
"Don't pretend you didn't want this, Fancy. You wanted this. You needed this. That's why you asked me."

"I did not!"

"Oh yes, you did. You didn't want me for my magic, for finding that scroll or my friendship with the little Princes. No, you wanted me for my savagery. You wanted a pony that killed."

"No... I needed someone..."

"Strawberry Leaf is a great diplomat. She's a good leader, she's better than me in every regard, except in one: She's a good little pony. My only advantage, the only thing I stand out in the whole delegation is that I'm a monster. No pony else in Equestria has taken the life of another in hundreds of years - Sun above, Fancy, they can barely stand to break rules, much less break bones. And I -- I am a monster. You wanted this Fancy and that is what you got."

He looked away. “I will consider it,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

That weakness again.... was it fear or foolishness that impelled him to stall?

"Please. Think about it," I asked again. I don't know why I needed him to agree, but I wanted it so badly -- some approval, a confirmation that what I was going to do was the right thing. A command and permission to do what we both knew needed to be done -- was it really too much to ask for?

"Fine," I relented after he would not say anything. "there's still time." The time I had no intention of wasting. I reached for the bottle I had prepared. "Meanwhile - more wine, milord?"

I needed to talk to someone. Not plot, or plan, or scheme, not to recite the lines fed to me by the Count, especially now, after our fall out. I needed a conversation, a warm touch of another pony, a normal equine connection. With Prince’s token in tow, I found myself at Bluette's door.

The servants took my gift and let me through without a word, guiding me to her bedroom.

She was playing a melody I did not know. It was a lyre -- that much I could recognize, even if I never really had much taste for classical music. It was never my thing, no matter how much Celestia tried to push it on me, but still, I stood and listened for a while, guessing at the notes. The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, then -- major lift…

I pushed the door open.

"I played this melody for the King once." She set the lyre aside. "They said it pleased Lord Guto. But you're not here for music, are you?"

I shifted uneasily. I didn't know why I came here, exactly, and all the recited lines evaporated from my head when I saw her.

"Sit child." She pointed to the place on the floor at her hooves, relieving me of the need to choose what to do and what to say. "Your mane is a mess, and we can talk while I fix it."

I settled down and she produced a tortoiseshell comb, parting my mane with gentle strokes.

It was relaxing, just sitting there at the feet of her chair, leaning into the monotone, almost hypnotising strokes. It brought back memories of childhood when I would come home, climb into the bathtub and wait for my mom to come back from work and wash my mane.

“I saw you with the Count on the marble arch.” She smiled as her hoof untangled some invisible knot in my mane. “Bravely done, little lady, but you’re too direct. Love is not a victory march, it is a subtle art.”

"There is no marching. It’s the Count -- he's so..." I gestured my annoyance. "...annoying."

"Ah," she said. "Annoying."

Her placating brushing held me in place when I wanted to turn her to check for signs of irony or mocking.

"Let me guess how it went, child." she ventured. "He came to you first -- when you were distracted, your emotions roused. He mocked you -- just a barb: a half-hearted compliment, a little sting, soothed by praise, or perhaps some form of alliance, commonality implied. ‘Us’ against ‘them’, as if you were of one blood, him and you, an inner circle of some sort."

I wanted to protest, but she thumped me on the head with the comb before I could speak.

"Hush now, child, hush and listen."

My nod was rewarded by the comb returning to my mane. Another rule of hers -- a tender touch for silence, a little pain for interruptions. I learned my lesson and kept quiet.

"There was a thing -- not quite a gift. Something for you to keep on his behalf. Precious, but not overwhelming, new, but not exceptional. A memento, reminding of him, an excuse for him to drop by whenever he pleased."

I thought to the snuff box of patinated silver and baby-blue sapphire I still carried with me, and said no word. A pet on the head, straightening out a stubborn cowlick, was my reward, like a cat scratched behind the ears.

"He offered you help then," she continued. "Whenever you'd want something -- money or skill, he'd be there to offer his assistance, his resources. Not too close, almost indifferent, but always present, a mentor to the young ingenue, a father figure to the little filly. He’d barb you on occasion, making you angry. Making you think of him."

That…. That was a good guess. But that was all there was to it. It had to be.

"And then finally a clincher. A dash of peacockery, dazzling a young girl with his knowledge and his wealth, and then there'd be something else. A touch? A smell?"

"You can't know that!" I protested and got another light smack for breaking the rule.

"Oh, I know so much more than that, child. Let me demonstrate." She did something behind me, making my neck shiver with a cold draft of strange magic.

"No peeking, child," she ordered before I even thought of turning back, “you don’t want to spoil a surprise, do you?”

Obediently I kept to watching the wall, listening intently to the rustling behind, focusing on the changing smells, until I felt it, one note among all of the various fragrances she released in the air, the same thin, acerbic scent that made me so distracted when I was talking with the Count.

"There we go." She didn't need any confirmation from me -- she read my mood in the sudden tension of my spine, the shiver of my coat. "You're from Baltimare, child, aren't you? The harbour area."

She laughed. Her laughter was rich and sweet, like coffee with milk, and the comb returned, dipping lower and brushing my tail now. There would be no answer to my question, voiced or unvoiced, merely the scent that drifted through the room, the brushing of the comb. It was something my Princess would do sometimes when she still tutored me personally -- the answer hidden within the question itself.

I closed my eyes, remembering the Count's impromptu lesson on wine-tasting, trying to feel and describe the scent, filtering out the heavy heat of the room and Bluette’s smell of summer peaches, concentrating on just the thin perfume. It was a cheap scent; sharp, chemical and citrusy.

Baltimare… -- that’s why I did not recognize it before. I was too used to feeling it interleaved with something else: the smell of old books and dust and salty water of harbour outside the window. A smell of home, where a filly could climb on her father's wide pleather armchair to look at the strange accounting books and play with the click-clacking abacus, and hear him explain how the numbers told of exotic winds and brave sailors bringing goods and magics from towns and countries far and near.

A low growl escaped my lips. I've been played -- for longer and much more thoroughly than I ever thought.

"All things are fair in love and war, child." Bluette petted me on the head. "And it seems you've been a victim of both. Now bring me the wine," she commanded, done with my tail, and giving me a push with her hind hoof, "it's on the high shelf, downstairs."

I brought her wine as she demanded, and sat at her hooves as she talked of love and of the games ponies play. She gave me the lesson on the things that govern kings and ladies, mages and paupers, and I thought of how Count has played me, and I would play the little prince. There was no revelation in her lesson, no single moment of "Eureka" where I could see the light -- for all that it was true, it was a cold and broken revelation.

And then, when I grew tired, and the wine ran out and the sun had left the sky, she drew me upon herself, and I pulled on her silken toga to uncover the softness of her belly. There was more softness down below, where her coat grew shorter and thinner.

There, upon the couch, she gave me another lesson on love -- one without words. I studied it thoroughly too.

I fell asleep after we moved to her cloud-bed, luxuriously warm in her embrace.

In my dream, I had two shadows, one black and sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze, and smelled faintly of summer peaches. And in the red, pulsing room that was also my heart, I gave myself advice in soft velvet whispers.

I remembered none when I awoke, but neither have I truly forgotten them.

I woke up famished, full of coiling, frenetic energy, and just in time for my nighttime rendezvous.

The Prince already waited for me eagerly, pacing along the short landing.

"Are you alright?" He asked as I stepped into the light of the sole torch.

"I'm fine. I was hiding here today, as you said. He cannot follow me here."

"Good, that's good." He tried to imitate the sage nod his brother tended to give, but on him, it looked more awkward than wise. "But you cannot persist like that forever.”

I said nothing, as the Count had told me to. Conversation, much like nature, abhors a vacuum. Let the eaglet fill it -- he will say things he never would have said otherwise, lead himself further than I could ever do.

“Something must be done!” A swish of the wing, a tail lashing at his side, he worked himself up further and further. “Before he hurts you again. I will not allow it! I cannot!”

His voice echoed off the walls, dissolving into silence and darkness.

"You..." his voice broke, when he finally reached the obvious idea. "You could stay here. I could protect you!

"I could ask Father..." he fell quiet. "No, he wouldn't, not with Gideon's stupid ploys. And Gwyr is such a coward, he'd never go against Gideon." He paced again, his claws scratching the stone, his wings raised in impotent Anger. "I have to do it myself. I don't need their permissions."
he said, his tail swishing angrily. “I… I am not my brother's subject!"

It was close, but it was not enough. There was still a hesitation in his words, a slight hitch. I needed him to commit, to push him past all doubt.

"I am sorry.." with the Сount's guidance, my voice became a musical instrument of uncanny precision. Speech that dripped, corroded and poisoned with the subtle stresses, seeping right through the chinks in what little armour the princeling had. "But whatever you do -- your brother would simply overrule you. He's the King-to-be, and you are..."

"A child," he said bitterly. "Eternal Prince, never the King."

I said nothing again, letting the awkward silence twist of the knife in the wound of his pride.

"No!" His wide wing gesture, his stretched claw -- a gesture of Resolve so full of pathos it almost made me laugh. He truly was now a hero of his own story playing out the giddy gossamer dreams that little colts and eaglets learn from ballads and books. “Gideon is not the only Prince. I can wield the power of the Idol just like he does! I will leave a mark on you, and you'll be one of us then, a citizen of Griffonstone. No one will be able to touch you!

“No one..."

He repeated as the meaning of his own words reached his ears. His wing wavered, his posture deflated.

I needed something more; just one last push, and in that instant, split-second decision you rationalize after the fact, I moved closer to him, putting my front hoof on the fluff of his puffed-out chest.

"Would you do that?" as if by magic, my voice trembled. "Go against your brother? Your father? For me?" Those strange overtones, that filled my voice, the perfect pleading look, as my hoof traced across his chest, the trembling lip -- It was not something I recited with the Count, it was a strange intuition, rising from within my mind... I would've frowned if I weren't afraid to break the spell I just weaved.

“I would!” he declared, making fists with his claws, his chest puffing out, and wings flaring, gesturing resolve. “I will!”

A lightning-sharp jolt of success, scared and surprised even myself. I had him! No muscle moved on my muzzle, and still, my face was downcast, only barely lit by the fragile hope of the desperate, but on the inside, I cried the savage joy of my triumph.

"Tomorrow." He muttered feverishly, drunk on his own rebelliousness. "Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. When Gid leaves with the winds. At night. I shall meet you in the hall between the Room of the Silver Bells and the Porcelain Gallery at the witching hour. There is a door, and then.. " he gestured Secrecy -- no, not Secrecy, this gesture was more of a promise of surprise -- "you'll see."

I want to live; I crave for sadness - 
Against my bliss and love, in truth; 
They sank my mind in idle gladness 
And made my brow so very smooth. 

It's time for high life's derogation
To blow away the hazy peace;
What is bard's life, void of desolation?
And what are void of tempests seas?

Galad, Prince of Griffonstone
Notebook in private collection