Hey! It looks like you're new here. You might want to check out the introduction.
Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
The Gathering
In the stars, the alicorns were gathering.
Come, Sister! In the heart of Virgo, we sing the thousand-year death-song for a fading galaxy. We shall gather its embers and bank them in a black hole.
“And then we come to the water tax,” Dotted Line said, turning another page of the neatly-lettered report on top of the stack of other neatly-lettered reports. “We tax per acre, as you know. Last year in Appleloosa, Flinthide Hayseed planted three acres of tomatoes.”
Celestia nodded. “Farmer Hayseed. He’s featured in several of your reports.”
We shall circle its fatal horizon and bathe in its death-glow. We will sing the birth song as we dive into its gravity well. We shall meet at its center and re-kindle its fires, and a new galaxy shall be born. Join us, Elder!
Dotted grunted discreetly. “Tomatoes use a lot of water. Not really suitable for Appleloosa.”
Come, my dove. I remember when you danced the death of Lachrydyceia, how your mane whipped in the solar wind as your hooves spread its heart across a hundred stars.
“The tomatoes all die, of course. Hayseed said he just wanted his money’s worth from his taxes.”
No mare’s laughter ever made the stars twinkle so brightly as yours did then!
“Flinthide Hayseed was never a very popular pony, the way a manticore isn’t a very desirable dinner guest.” Dotted held a form out. “But the trouble really started when he filed for drought relief for his dead tomatoes.”
Hold in your brilliance no longer. Let me see your pelt glow like the furnace at the heart of Mu Cephei. Let me see the light of a hundred suns in your eyes, and I will breathe down your neck from behind, and hold you tight while a thousand novas burst within us.
“Your Highness? Are you all right? I can come back later.”
“I’m fine.” Celestia took a breath. “Tell good Yeoman Hayseed we grant his relief, provided he justifies his attempt to grow tomatoes in the desert with a form SF-3553, Explanation of Peculiar Circumstances.”
Dotted inhaled. “An SF-3553?”
Celestia nodded.
“I have faith, as always, in your judgement. But You help us if Flinthide turns out to be the pony who can actually finish the thing.” Dotted flipped the tax reports onto the growing stack of finished items. He wrote a note, clipped it to Hayseed’s application, and put that in a third pile. He cleared his throat. “Now. As regards the upcoming Gala. I have a petition signed by seventy-three nobles to find a ‘more secure’ location for this year’s festivities.”
Remember all, then forget it, forget yourself, forget the borders between minds and drift, feel, see, be!
“Reassure them that we shall,” Celestia said with a slight smile.
“The only location more secure than the Royal Palace is the Royal Dungeons,” Dotted observed.
Celestia’s eyes looked innocently upwards.
Come! Fly between Rigel and Orion’s belt, out through the purest deep space, and pull up at the great hydrogen clouds. You can be here in a hundred years!
Dotted clipped a note to the petition and put it in the third pile. “And here is the recommendation committee’s report on the advisory committee’s report on the recommendation committee’s activities.”
“Dotted Line,” Celestia interrupted, “I would like a hug.”
Dotted blinked. “Your Highness?”
“A hug. I understand it is a thing ponies do.”
Dotted coughed. “Ponies, in general, yes.”
Celestia waited.
“Is that an order?”
“No.”
Dotted gingerly stepped two inches closer to Celestia. He had spent much of his life with his muzzle a pastern away from Celestia’s, but never before within a hoofspan of it. He reached up and placed his forelegs stiffly around Celestia’s shoulders, his eyes shut tight.
Celestia inclined her neck until it brushed up against his.
Dotted’s eyes opened wide. Slowly, his face relaxed into a smile. After a few seconds, he slid back to the floor and took two steps back.
“Thank you, Dotted.”
Dotted mumbled incoherently.
“Please file a GR-17, Recommendation for Recognition. Action/Honor/Award, Pendant of the Sun. Recipient, Dotted Line. Stamp it with my seal.”
Dotted’s eyebrows pulled together. “The Pendant of the Sun is for heroism in the defense of Equestria.”
“It would have taken you less courage to lead a battle charge, and done less to defend Equestria. Now. These committees. What do they even do?”
Celestia leaned over the report. Dotted grasped eagerly at the familiar bureaucratic language. Out past the constellations, the alicorns continued to gather.
Come, Sister! In the heart of Virgo, we sing the thousand-year death-song for a fading galaxy. We shall gather its embers and bank them in a black hole.
“And then we come to the water tax,” Dotted Line said, turning another page of the neatly-lettered report on top of the stack of other neatly-lettered reports. “We tax per acre, as you know. Last year in Appleloosa, Flinthide Hayseed planted three acres of tomatoes.”
Celestia nodded. “Farmer Hayseed. He’s featured in several of your reports.”
We shall circle its fatal horizon and bathe in its death-glow. We will sing the birth song as we dive into its gravity well. We shall meet at its center and re-kindle its fires, and a new galaxy shall be born. Join us, Elder!
Dotted grunted discreetly. “Tomatoes use a lot of water. Not really suitable for Appleloosa.”
Come, my dove. I remember when you danced the death of Lachrydyceia, how your mane whipped in the solar wind as your hooves spread its heart across a hundred stars.
“The tomatoes all die, of course. Hayseed said he just wanted his money’s worth from his taxes.”
No mare’s laughter ever made the stars twinkle so brightly as yours did then!
“Flinthide Hayseed was never a very popular pony, the way a manticore isn’t a very desirable dinner guest.” Dotted held a form out. “But the trouble really started when he filed for drought relief for his dead tomatoes.”
Hold in your brilliance no longer. Let me see your pelt glow like the furnace at the heart of Mu Cephei. Let me see the light of a hundred suns in your eyes, and I will breathe down your neck from behind, and hold you tight while a thousand novas burst within us.
“Your Highness? Are you all right? I can come back later.”
“I’m fine.” Celestia took a breath. “Tell good Yeoman Hayseed we grant his relief, provided he justifies his attempt to grow tomatoes in the desert with a form SF-3553, Explanation of Peculiar Circumstances.”
Dotted inhaled. “An SF-3553?”
Celestia nodded.
“I have faith, as always, in your judgement. But You help us if Flinthide turns out to be the pony who can actually finish the thing.” Dotted flipped the tax reports onto the growing stack of finished items. He wrote a note, clipped it to Hayseed’s application, and put that in a third pile. He cleared his throat. “Now. As regards the upcoming Gala. I have a petition signed by seventy-three nobles to find a ‘more secure’ location for this year’s festivities.”
Remember all, then forget it, forget yourself, forget the borders between minds and drift, feel, see, be!
“Reassure them that we shall,” Celestia said with a slight smile.
“The only location more secure than the Royal Palace is the Royal Dungeons,” Dotted observed.
Celestia’s eyes looked innocently upwards.
Come! Fly between Rigel and Orion’s belt, out through the purest deep space, and pull up at the great hydrogen clouds. You can be here in a hundred years!
Dotted clipped a note to the petition and put it in the third pile. “And here is the recommendation committee’s report on the advisory committee’s report on the recommendation committee’s activities.”
“Dotted Line,” Celestia interrupted, “I would like a hug.”
Dotted blinked. “Your Highness?”
“A hug. I understand it is a thing ponies do.”
Dotted coughed. “Ponies, in general, yes.”
Celestia waited.
“Is that an order?”
“No.”
Dotted gingerly stepped two inches closer to Celestia. He had spent much of his life with his muzzle a pastern away from Celestia’s, but never before within a hoofspan of it. He reached up and placed his forelegs stiffly around Celestia’s shoulders, his eyes shut tight.
Celestia inclined her neck until it brushed up against his.
Dotted’s eyes opened wide. Slowly, his face relaxed into a smile. After a few seconds, he slid back to the floor and took two steps back.
“Thank you, Dotted.”
Dotted mumbled incoherently.
“Please file a GR-17, Recommendation for Recognition. Action/Honor/Award, Pendant of the Sun. Recipient, Dotted Line. Stamp it with my seal.”
Dotted’s eyebrows pulled together. “The Pendant of the Sun is for heroism in the defense of Equestria.”
“It would have taken you less courage to lead a battle charge, and done less to defend Equestria. Now. These committees. What do they even do?”
Celestia leaned over the report. Dotted grasped eagerly at the familiar bureaucratic language. Out past the constellations, the alicorns continued to gather.