They stood alone, upon a starlit hill, surrounded by battlements blown to pieces by the force of a climactic struggle. The flames of dying fires whipped like tattered banners in the wind. Around them lay corpses in bloodstained livery, bearing sigils of sun and moon. Far below, and out of sight, the final battle raged. A symphony of chaos, all clashing steel and raging bellows, carried to them through the night. 

From across the killing field, the alicorns of light and dark stared at one another. The Nightmare Macabre sneered, imperiously leveling a hoof at her sibling.

	"What sayeth thou, Celestia? How now?
	The kingdom built on sunlight's golden kiss
	Sees in the nightmare's cold abyss an end
	To all the enterprise of ponykind.
	Yet thou are not content to lay and die
	In silv'ry fields, with moonlit jasmine choked.
	By air and sea and land alike, you come,
	By horn and hoof, a final stand you wage
	And here, at last, upon the end of all
	You come to treat with me, the Nightmare Queen.
	What sayeth thou? what scheme, what toothy lie?
	Speak quickly now, or keep thy peace and die."

Celestia met her sister's haughtiness with warmth and compassion. She stepped forward, her voice pleading, her eyes wide and dewey.

	"'Tis not as sov'reign that I come to thee
	But as thy flesh and blood, thy trueborn kin.
	No terms of peace, no treaty can be writ
	Which can equate in any mean amount
	The love I bear thee deep within my heart.
	Pray! oh, sister, oh fallen Nightmare fair!
	To Canterlot, let us remove, and there
	We shall together set aright the spheres
	And mend the bloody gap within our realm
	For which love, alone, can make recompense.
	Let sun and moon in harmony abide,
	And let this nightmare, at long last, subside."

But Nightmare Moon threw back her head, and laughed, as thunder crashed and lightning split the sky.

	"Thy words are hollow, and thy fate is sealed!"

Her hoof dug into the ground; she grinned.

	"Lay on! By horn and hoof shall come thy end.
	Let carrion thy bones and flesh attend."

Celestia bowed her head and shut her eyes, and let a single tear of regret slip down her regal face. When it passed, she lifted herself, and unfurled her wings, a golden light beneath her hooves. Her words struck like hot iron.

	"It is not horn and hoof, but harmony
	That will Equestria deliver. Hark!"

Six points of light appeared around Celestia – red and blue, yellow and pink, green and violet. Nightmare Moon's eyes widened, and she roared a defiant challenge as those six lights coalesced into a white-hot ball of light. A rainbow wave streaked toward the the Nightmare Macabre, and swept her away, carrying her far into the night's sky.

Like an oil stain, the face of a mare spread across the moon.

Fingers of gold crept across the sky, driving away the velvety purple of the night. The moon descended below the horizon, and the sun rose to take its place. Behind Celestia, a column of blood-spattered ponies stampeded up the hill, and she turned to greet them. Their captain doffed her greathelm, and smiled proudly at her soldiers.

	"See now, ponies, the morning's golden rays?
	The nightmare moon is fell'd. We've won the day!"

She bowed, and her soldiers bowed with her, and sang their savior's praises.

	"Hail, hail, Celestia, the sun-kissed queen!"

But Celestia drew her captain up, and shook her head soberly.

	"'Tis not a time for merriment or cheer,
	But for mourning. I am no queen, my friends,
	And conquest not a thing to celebrate.
	For though we have the day reclaimed and saved,
	The blood we shed may not be washed away,
	Nor can what I have wrought be now undone.
	My sister's soul, I sought to save. Alas!
	I have condemned her to oblivion,
	And in so doing have myself been damn'd.
	My heart is rent asunder, and you would name
	This pain, this gaping wound, a victory?"

Unshed tears glimmered in the morning's glow.

	"What sweetest suffering must defeat be."

The victorious princess, and her loyal guard, stood among the detritus of a climactic final battle that no mortal could now recall, the hard-won light of a brand new day shining to the east.

And the world exploded into applause, whistles and stomps and cheers that rang across the cavernous Manehattan stagehouse. One could get drunk on that kind of adoration, and Pomade Well felt vaguely tipsy. It almost made emerging from the illusion worth it.

He opened his eyes with a sigh, returning to a world of ropes and velvet curtains, wooden boards and brick walls and the ever-present theater tang of sweat and make-up. He'd seen [i]The Nightmare Macabre[/i], his own production and those of others, enough times to know that it would never match what he saw in his mind's eye. He'd done his best to recreate it, of course, and he'd done as good a job as anypony. Still, the most he could boast is that the voices, the performances, met and surpassed what he heard in his head when he read the play to himself. And so he made it his nightly ritual to slip away and shut his eyes at the climax, and let his actresses bear him away in his imagination.

Now, though, it was time for another ritual.

Pomade trotted to the wings, offstage right, and stared out at the cast assembled at the front of the stage. They bowed, as one, the Princesses in the middle of their line, and parted to make way for him. They beckoned him, and he sauntered onto the stage, grinning and running a hoof in his slicked-back mane.

The Princesses stood aside for him, and they linked their forelegs together; the crowd in the theater house stood for him, their whistles and cheers crescendoing. On either side, a chain of ponies stretched, a dozen and a half speaking parts.

Pomade gazed across the crowd, at his adoring public. All were standing, all were cheering.

Except for one.

A unicorn sat in the very back of the house, with a silvery-blue mane and a coat just a shade or two darker, over which she wore a black mourner's dress that hid most of her body in lace. She had to be large, larger than the average mare, to be seen over the burly stallion in front of her. Even her horn was massive, as long as his leg from hoof to knee, Pomade guessed.

She met his eyes, and scowled, the stage lights glinting off of her green-ringed eyes.

Pomade's elation tasted like ashes in his mouth as he bowed.

[HR]

"...I don't think the audience noticed, personally, but when Batsy flubbed her line, I wanted to strangle her. We drilled that a hundred thousand times, and she [i]still [/i]couldn't get the timing right!" 'Nightmare Moon' scoffed as she trotted down the hotel corridor with Pomade, the plush carpet beneath them muffling her hoofbeats. 

"Hm," said Pomade.

"I mean, the audience certainly didn't catch it, but I did. You did too, right?" she continued. "In act three, scene two? The 'chop her into messes' speech?"

"Hm." He actually had zero idea what she was talking about. Agreeing, or making vauge noises that could be construed as agreeing, was just something he'd learned to do when mares were talking and he couldn't be bothered to listen.

He felt a thump against his hip – his companion's flank bumping against his own – and turned to regard her. Sure, she was out of costume now – no silver regalia or pleather wings, and her natural, chestnut curls framed her face instead of the starry blue wig. But the black dye in her coat and the make-up on her horn, though temporary, didn't come out as easily, and she drew the occasional stare from the hotel's guests and staff as she moved about the place. The look of concern she was giving him now was utterly ill-suited to Nightmare Moon.

"Sorry, Bloom," said Pomade with a half-smile. "Guess my mind's just elsewhere right now."

Blooming Garland sidled closer to him, dropping her voice. "Pom, what's the matter? You've been acting weird ever since the curtain call. Even your notes had less Applewood narcissism in 'em than usual."

Pomade looked away, chewing his lip. "Did you see that unicorn mare in the back of the house? The blue one, with the long horn?"

"I didn't. I was more preoccupied with blowing kisses to that journalist from the Manehattan Bugle." She nudged him again, harder. "Should I be jealous?"

He had to smirk at that. "No, no, it's not like that. She just – she didn't applaud, that's all."

Blooming Garland snorted. "Oh, is [i]that [/i]all? Here I was worried it was something serious."

Pomade whipped his head around to look at her, stricken. "Bloom!"

"Oh, come now, Pom. I knew you were thin-skinned, but to fixate on the one mare in a packed house who [i]wasn't [/i]giving you a standing ovation?" She shook her head, sighing.

Pomade flushed. "You could at least pretend to take me seriously."

They came to a stop by her suite, and she stepped in front of him to take his face between her hooves. "The show's a hit, Pomade. It's [i]always [/i]been a hit. In the grand scheme of things, what does it matter if [i]one [/i]pony out of hundreds didn't stomp her hooves for you?"

"...Mm." Pomade smiled tightly, and nodded. "Sure."

"What was that?" said Bloom, tilting her head and leaning closer. "That still didn't sound like you."

"I said 'if you're feeling so good about the play, then perhaps we ought to celebrate a little.'" His smile grew more relaxed, more natural.

"Knew you were in there somewhere." She pressed her forehead against his, mindful not to tap him with the point of her horn. "Sorry, but I'm gonna scrub this foul dye out of my coat, and sleep for the next eighteen hours – and no, before you ask, I am not looking for company in either endeavor."

"Mm... shame."

Bloom pulled away, and pecked him on the tip of his nose. "Perhaps tomorrow night."

Pomade leered at her. "Or tomorrow morning?"

"Bring champagne and orange juice, and we'll see. I'll need at least three mimosas in my system to stomach your touch that early." With a smoky look, she magically unlatched her door and backed inside. Then, turning, she looped her tail around the knob, and shut the door with a swing of her hips.

Pomade grinned the rest of the way to his room, thinking to himself what a lucky stallion he was.

...[i]In most respects, [/i]he amended, when he recalled the empty bed awaiting him.

[HR]

With a snap, and a hum of electricity, the spotlight switched on, shining in Pomade's face. He recoiled instinctively, raising a hoof to shield his eyes. The house beyond was pitch black – or maybe the light was just too bright for him to see anything past it – but he could hear the murmurs and whispers of the crowd. And he knew that they could see him.

"[i]Psst![/i]"

Pomade looked to his left. Princess Celestia was seated in a director's chair in the wings, wearing a scarf and beret, drinking a mimosa from a long-stemmed glass. Next to was Blooming Garland, in costume as Nighmare Moon, yet colored naturally underneath her armor. 

"[i]Read,[/i]" Celestia mouthed, gesturing emphatically.

Pomade gulped and looked at his hooves – the script was open to a scene halfway through, one he hadn't rehearsed, hadn't even read, and now, couldn't read. The words on the page were gibberish, random squiggles and doodles of suns and moons, and coffee cups and traffic cones.

Gulping, and sweating in the spotlight's heat, he looked at Celestia. "I can't," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't know how."

The murmurs in the crowd grew restless. Bloom looked cooly at them from the corner of her eye, and itched with a hind hoof at the plate encasing her neck.

"[i]Wrong page,[/i]" Celestia mouthed. She pantomimed flipping a piece of paper open. The curtains beside them shimmered and waved with a musical chime.

Bloom leaned over and stuck her tongue into the mimosa, lapping it into her mouth.

Pomade did as he was told, and flipped the page open, only slightly mollified by what he saw. He still didn't know what play they were doing, but the photorealistic elephant at least offered [i]some [/i]direction.

So Pomade drew himself up, and took a long, deep breath.

[i]"BWAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM![/i]"

Immediately, the audience laughed and cheered, hooves pounding the seats and the boards with delight. Pomade's chest swelled with courage. Rearing onto his back legs and spreading his forelegs, he repeated himself, twice as long and loud.

"[i][b]BWAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM![/b][/i]"

The applause grew rapturous. Ponies whistled, and cheered, and called out his name; hotel keys and roses were flung onto the stage in front of him. Pomade, grinning, turned to look at Celestia and Bloom.

They were nowhere to be found. In their place was a unicorn, with a silvery blue mane, and a horn half as long as Pomade's leg. Where her eyes should have been, there were only vacant pits.

The eyeless mare scowled at him. 

Pomade felt his hind legs quake, and he fell to all fours, dropping his script as he did. Cursing himself, he tried to search for it, as the audience's cheering melted into irritated, unsatisfied mutterings.

"Bwaroom?"  Pomade ventured in a squeaky, uncertain voice.

His response was a lone, derisive snort, though there were still some scattered laughs.

"Bwaroom!" he repeated, gamboling forward frantically. The audience's laughter grew mocking, from giggles to jeers.

Pomade took one last, desperate breath.

"[i]HAWWWWWWW. Hee-HAWWWWWWWWW.[/i]"

Insults and epithets joined the jeers, as the audience's mockery reached a fever pitch. Pomade ducked as rotten fruit pelted the stage, exploding upon the boards, and smothering the tokens of favor from before.

He whirled to glare at the eyeless mare. "This is [i]your [/i]fault! They [i]loved [/i]me until [i]you [/i]came along!"

The eyeless mare laughed silently without breaking her scowl, and shook her head. Rising, she turned away, and trotted into the wings behind her, the curtains enveloping her, making her vanish.

Pomade tried to gallop after her, but slipped on a banana, to the crowd's mocking delight. He fell, face-first, and kept on falling through the boards. The jeers of the audience grew distant, muted, as he tumbled end over end through an endless sea of stars. The curtains kept pace with him all the while, rustling with some unfelt breeze, even when the boards were gone and the spotlight was nothing but a pinprick of light among a thousand thousand more just like it.

Pomade, curious, looked upstage, between the curtains. Teal eyes, larger than his whole body, gazed back at him.

Pomade screamed and covered his face. "Somepony! Somepony, help! Bloom! Princess Celestia! Somepony, [i]please[/i]!"

A bemused scoff echoed through the infinite. [i]"I'll try not to take that personally."[/i]

The eyes shrank down to a pony's proportions, and hovered against the backdrop of stars. Lines suddenly darted between those glowing pinpricks, sketching out constellations, connecting into the familiar curves and contours of a mare. Then the shape stepped forward, emerging from the starfield, suddenly tangible and equine.

Princess Luna watched Pomade twirl weightlessly a moment longer, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, before she shrugged. Gravity pulled him downward, and he landed with a thud at her hooves, on a floor that didn't exist.

"Rise," she commanded. Her voice was young, even girlish – he hadn't been expecting that. "Seriously. It's all but impossible to have a serious conversation when one of the participants is lying on the floor and refuses to get up."

Abashed, Pomade scrambled to all fours, brushing himself off and running a hoof over his mane to ensure it was still nicely slicked. Luna noticed, and her lip quirked up in a smirk.

"Am I dreaming?" Pomade said thickly. "Is this... real?"

"Yes. And yes."

"Ah," said Pomade, nodding sagely. "Meaningless double-talk. So this is probably a dream."

Luna sighed, and strolled past Pomade, the intoxicating scent of jasmine following her. "The answers to your questions are not mutually exclusive – the waking world is not so far removed from the world of sleep, and the barrier dividing one from the other is thinner than you might believe. Per my duties, I walk between the two nightly." 

"...Meaning?"

"Meaning, yes, you [i]are [/i]dreaming, and yet, at the same time, this is real," Luna said testily, scowling. "This conversation, between you and I, [i]is [/i]actually happening. So you should probably consider, carefully, how you address me, [i]Pomade Well[/i]."

He almost said 'how do you know my name?' before realizing what an absurd thing to say that would be. He was also distracted by the alarming familiarity of that scowl.

"You were the mare in the audience! The one who... who didn't applaud." Pomade felt his ears droop in time with his waning enthusiasm.

"Correct." Luna plucked a golden star from the backdrop, and stuck it to Pomade's forehead.

Pomade blinked, and rubbed it off with a frown. "How? I mean, you look like her, but at the same time, you don't."

"[i]Now [/i]who is indulging in double-talk?" Luna smirked impishly – it seemed a natural look for her. She ran a hoof through her mane, the nebula trailing behind her head transforming into strands of silvery blue, which she smoothed out against her neck. She turned, this way and that, before giving her mane a shake, and it melted back into its previous form.

"A simple glamour, nothing more – a look which hearkens back to my... younger days, let us say. Every now and again, I take that form, when I wish to walk the waking world without drawing undue attention." Luna chuckled, and fluffed her wings. "The dress is more about function than form – [i]these [/i]would draw [i]more [/i]attention, not less, if I left them exposed, wouldn't you agree?"

So that explained the mourner's dress. Pomade supposed that an above-average-sized unicorn in a lacy funeral outfit [i]would[/i] draw less attention than an alicorn princess when walking about town... but not that much less.

He trotted after Luna as she trotted through the starscape, following her to the rings of a planet which spun, tilted just slightly, on its axis. Far away, meteors and comets streaked past, leaving trails of cosmic dust in their wake.

"I feel like I should ask," Pomade ventured as Luna paused beside the ringed planet. "What, exactly are you doing here?"

"Besides protecting your psyche from nightmares? Luna batted the rings with a hoof, and it spun like a vinyl record around the planet. 

Pomade watched, perplexed and, on some level, delighted. "That wasn't a nightmare. At least, it's not usually one."

Luna raised an eyebrow. "I know. I've seen you have that dream before. It usually ends with more cheering, more applause, and your lady friend mashing your lips together upon a small mountain of hotel keys, while my sister shouts directions at you. Correct?"

"Something like that," Pomade muttered.

"It must be a potent dream, for you to recall it so clearly." Luna nodded. "Of course, why a dream that's normally so pleasant should turn into such a vivid and unsettling nightmare is a mystery. What could have affected your psyche so, to prompt such a turn for the..."

Pomade looked at his hooves.

"...Goodness," Luna whispered. "You [i]are [/i]thin-skinned, aren't you?"

Pomade grumbled, his face hot. "Please tell me you didn't just come into my dream to tease me."

"On the contrary, Pomade Well. It's rare that I actually manifest in a dream which is not a nightmare. Rarer, still, to make somepony aware that they [i]are [/i]dreaming. I would not do so without good reason."

Pomade tilted his head. "That being?"

"I wanted to meet with you privately," Luna said. "[i]Without [/i]the possibility that somepony might interrupt us."

"...[i]Oh?[/i]" Pomade leered at Luna. "That's prudent of you, Princess. But if you're worried about Bloom getting jealous—"

Luna cuffed Pomade across the ear, drawing a yelp from him.

"What was that for?" he whined.

"Your presumption. Your familiarity. And, in general, you are annoying me. I am the Princess of the Night, not some waif in estrus, and this is [i]not [/i]purely a social call, so you might consider observing proper etiquette when speaking to me." Under her breath, Luna muttered, "why can't they all be as easy to deal with as the Cutie Mark Crusaders?"

"And you called me thin-skinned." Pomade rubbed the spot behind his ear that Luna had struck. "Well, if you're not here for a good time—"

"Careful," Luna said dangerously.

"—then what [i]are [/i]you here for? Is it about the play; are you here to complain about the play? Because if you are, then you're already the worst theater critic I've ever had to deal with. The worst they do—"

"[i]Careful,[/i]" Luna repeated, more sharply this time.

"—I've never actually been [i]hit [/i]by a critic before tonight. Your majesty," Pomade added as an afterthought.

"Well. That fact still stands, as I am not a theater critic. Nor am I here to criticize your production." Luna looked squarely at him. "It was competently executed. On a technical level, anyway. Your performers were hit and miss; the actresses portraying my sister and I did a passible job with the material they were given, but the more minor roles... I do believe the thestral playing Lady Macrotus missed a cue in the third act."

Pomade internally kicked himself. How [i]did [/i]he miss that?! "Then, and forgive my bluntness please, [i]what is your problem with me[/i]?"

Luna shook her head. "I've no problem with you, Pomade Well."

Pomade wanted to scream. "Then why—"

"'Tis the script I wish to discuss. The play, not the production thereof." Luna chuckled bitterly. "[i]The Nightmare Macabre: A Historie in Five Acts.[/i] One of Shakesdeere's more widely read and appreciated works. I certainly see why, too. It's grim, and messy, and, as advertised, macabre. Such things play well with audiences, in any age, I think."

"I suppose that's true." Pomade watched Luna warily. "All due respect, though, Princess, I don't think that has much to do with its enduring popularity."

"Oh?"

"It's a compelling story, in its own right."

"Yes. It [i]is [/i]a [i]compelling[/i] story." Luna smiled a tight, thin smile. "The origins, and rise, and fall, of Nightmare Moon. The ancient enemy of the day. The fallen sister to Princess Celestia. Who invited hatred into her heart, and in so doing—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Pomade said, holding up a hoof to silence the Princess. "Yeah, alright, fine. I concede, it's natural for you to take something like this personally."

"'Take this personally.'" Luna's jaw worked in silence. "Do you know the story of Nightmare Moon, Pomade Well? The old pony's tale, told to fillies and colts at bedtime?"

"'Course I do." Pomade swallowed. "Princess Lu— or, you, I guess, just you. [i]You [/i]were jealous that ponies slept during the night, and didn't appreciate the work you did creating it."

"Nor its beauty. So I created one which would last forever, and battled my sister to rule the land." Luna's bitter, ironic grew melancholy. "That is... a simplification, but there is truth in there. More than there is in Shakesdeere's take, where I feigned goodness until the chance presented itself to stab my sister in the back."

"Yes, thank you, Princess." Pomade looked pointedly at Luna. "I am familiar with the play."

"Simply trying to make a point, Pomade." She regarded him in silence for a moment. "When I returned from my long imprisonment, my sister gave me a treasure trove of literature – the greater whole of Equestria's canon which was written in my absence. Truth be told, I'm still working my way through it, and I only recently came across this play. Reading it was... difficult. But, I reasoned, perhaps there was something I was missing, by reading it off the page, rather than experiencing it as it was meant to be experienced. A longshot, I know, but one which I clung to.

"Imagine how pleased I was when I learned that the play had a highly popular production on Bridleway, in Manehattan. So I bought a ticket – under an alias, naturally – and attended incognito, hoping that Pomade Well's revival would have some added dimension, some room for nuance, which the script lacked."

"And here we are now," Pomade finished for her. "I understand why it bothers you, Princess. I mean, I guess I do; I can't really identify. Hell, who could? But it's historical [i]fiction. [/i]It's [i]based[/i] on a true story. Nopony's claimed that it's fact."

"And yet it is billed as a history," Luna looked at Pomade, her expression soft. "Do you want to know why the Nightmare took hold of me? It was not hatred for the day, or for my sister, as Shakesdeere wrote. Nor was it mere envy. I wanted to be known. I wanted to be loved. I wanted ponies to look on me with the adoration with which they showered Celestia. The affection they [i]still [/i]show her."

She turned away. The starfield was beginning to darken, the comets' trails fading, the starry lights winking out, one by one.

"What I did was wicked. Misguided, and evil. My subjects, and my sister, have forgiven me for it, and I have forgiven myself. But it has not been forgotten. It cannot be forgotten, nor [i]should [/i]it be forgotten. I have made my peace with this – and, in truth, there are parts to the Nightmare Moon mythos which I find... charming. Mostly the parts with candy."

Pomade snickered.

"Yet I fear that [i]that [/i]is still how I shall be primarily known." Luna cast her eyes downward. "That my subjects will never come to know and love Princess Luna, the mare, but this cultural construction of her. At best, as a misguided child whose heart was corrupted, and at worst, as a Shakesdeerean villain who willfully sought to end life as we know it, because she was, by nature, evil."

"...I'm real sorry about that, Princess." said Pomade. "But I don't get why you're telling me all of this. What do you want me to do? Shut down the play?"

"Would you, if I asked?" She silenced him before he could answer with an upraised hoof. "I wouldn't, and I won't. Perhaps I've no room to call you thin-skinned, when I am bringing these complaints to you, but I would never censor. Rather, I suppose I am telling you this, because... because I am not Celestia; I cannot walk among my little ponies and bask in their adoration. That is simply not who I am. All I can do is hope that I can inspire my subjects by setting an example for them. That they will spread tales of the benevolent Princess of the Night, who shielded them from their nightmares, and helped them in their own, personal journies. And that, in time, [i]this [/i]will be what springs to mind when ponies think of me. Not the Nightmare Macabre."

A smile split Pomade's face, as a thought occured to him. "Princess... I think I'm starting to understand what you want from me."

Luna's ear twitched, and she smiled blithely. Her body melted away into the starfield, the lines shaping her form vanishing, the constellations drifting apart as their stars winked out altogether.

[i]"Why, Pomade," [/i]she tittered. [i]"I've no idea what you're talking about."[/i]

[HR]

Pomade Well's eyes fluttered open. He lifted his head from his pillow to peer out the window. Dawn, gray and overcast, greeted him. It was early, that much was clear – he wasn't even sure how long he'd really slept.

How odd that he felt completely rested, then.

Pomade bolted out of bed and out the door, hoping the carpet would muffle his hoofsteps as he approached Blooming Garland's door. He knocked on it, twice, softly.

Nothing.

Pomade knocked on it a third time, louder. A fourth, still louder. A fifth—

The door swung open, and he was greeted with Bloom's yawning face, still darkened with patches of black dye. "For pony's sake, Pom, do you know how early it is?"

"Honestly? No. Too early for mimosas, I presume."

"Ugh, if that's seriously what brought you over..." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and frowned at him, though it faded when she saw the look in his eye. "What is it?"

"Something happened to me tonight." Pomade lowered his voice. "Something important. I need to talk it over with you, and... I don't believe it's the sort of thing that should wait."

With concern on her face, Bloom stood aside, and Pomade shuffled inside.

[HR]

"I don't even know where to begin with this, Pom." Blooming Garland set her mug of cheap, instant coffee down on her coffee table, beside a plate of cold scones she'd bought for breakfast the day before. "It all sounds so... intense, so vivid. I mean, I'd heard that Princess Luna visits ponies in their dreams, but I've never met anypony who's had it happen to them before."

"Well... you have now," Pomade chuckled into his own drink. The two sat together, huddled on the couch in her suite, beneath a blanket that covered them both from behind.

Bloom bit her lip, and placed her hoof around his back. "What are you gonna do, Pom? I mean... the show..."

"...Must go on," he says, wincing a bit at the cliche. "She didn't ask me to cancel it, Bloom. And, well, frankly... I probably wouldn't, even if she did."

"No, of course you wouldn't. Not you. That'd be the smart thing to do." She nudged him playfully. "What [i]will [/i]you do, then?"

Pomade set his cup on the table and took a deep breath.

"I've been thinking... the story of Nightmare Moon's birth and fall, that's been done, and done well. Perhaps there's room for the story of Nightmare Moon's redemption. A cool, contemporary take on it all. Make no mistake, it'd be a monumental effort – probably will have to be a musical, too, because that's just how things are these days..."

Bloom laughed.

"...But I believe it can be done. Moreover, I believe it [i]should [/i]be done." He looked seriously at Bloom. "However. I'm not interested in doing the job without my Mare in the Moon at my side."

"At your [i]side, [/i]huh?" said Bloom, smirking. She snuggled against Pomade, and cupped his cheek to press her nose against his. "Can I get a producer's credit?"

"Swear to do something about that coffee breath, and you can have whatever the hell you want."

"Like you have any room to talk," she said, before pressing their lips together.