The Anatomy of Aesthetics

by AltruistArtist

Fig. 7. — The Wings (of a Future)

On the eve of the five-hundred-and-thirty-first year of Celestial Peace, Flaire d’Mare stood at the base of the Canterlot city square stage. It didn’t terrify her.

Today she wore a charming button-collar dress, accessorized with her pearls and gold earrings, suited to an evening event of aerial wonderment. Flaire watched the Wonderbolts run through their warmups, wings extending through a series of routine stretches. Each of them wore a sleek flight suit, rendered in a cotton-elastane blend of azure blue. Lightning bolts encircled their pasterns and blazed along their barrels. Thick aviation goggles were wrapped snug across their faces, the lenses catching the hot glare of the floodlight lanterns.

One of them lifted off, alighting before Flaire at the base of the stage. Her landing was flawless, supported by a pair of blue ring splits wrapping her fetlocks. Lifting up her goggles, she grinned, her dimple pushing through the fabric mask hugging her wily, coltish face.

“The splints look like they’re working well,” Flaire remarked.

“Better than I could have dreamed! Can’t wait to debut ‘em.” Fairy Flight giggled. She extended a foreleg, displaying the shiny new ring splint encircling her fetlock like a fetching bangle. “Stars, I’m still a little giddy about how much easier things are with these, lady.” Her eyes drooped and softened. “Thank you. For everything.”

Flaire snorted, batting a hoof. “Oh, no need to be mushy. You needed them.”

Fairy shook her head. “Still too quick to dismiss your own worth.” She fluttered her wings with a rascally grin. “I’ll work that out of you, yet! Pegasus-style!”

Flaire raised a manicured eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“More like a promise.” Fairy giggled. Then, she sobered. She pat Flaire’s shoulder with a wing. “You feel ready for today?”

“I ought to be." Flaire let out a quick sigh through her nostrils. "The crash tests were all passed with flying colors. Each magical simulation was a success. I wouldn’t have allowed you all to perform, otherwise.”

Fairy nodded. “So this is it.”

“This is it.”

The stage was decorated with a glittering foil skirt and a row of ruffled banners bearing the Wonderbolts’ winged lightning insignia. It was the seasonal decor of the performance, paired with iconography of the Celestial sun. Above it all, General Flash crossed the stage. It was difficult to make him out at first, his face concealed by the azure blue of his flight suit, a shade that still clashed with his teal coat. He met Flaire’s eyes once, nodded, and looked away.

Fairy said, “You know... I think Clarity would be really proud to see the Wonderbolts wearing her design.”

Flaire blinked. Fairy said all things with a rakish confidence. But this she said humbly, nervously. Like it risked coming off as untoward.

And as she stood there in the dim gray light – wearing a little half-smile, splinted hoof scraping the ground, mane gleaming with a thick lacquer of gel – Fairy embodied a heroic Wonderbolt paragon in every degree of her manner.

Flaire smiled. “She is.”

There was a sharp whistle from the stage. A ‘Bolt swept a wing, beckoning Fairy to join them.

“Sounds like that’s my cue. Performance is on in five!” Fairy crouched, wings crooked to take off — and Flaire’s magic halted her, wrapping a gentle grasp around her hind hoof.

Fairy turned. “Lady?”

Flaire took a deep breath, speaking quick, before the nerves caught up with her. “When you first came to my boutique, you told me about that article that had been written about you. You wondered where you fit in with the Wonderbolts.”

She closed the distance between them, embracing Fairy Flight with all the wingless sincerity she could offer. As hugs went, it was stiff, a touch awkward. But Fairy was warm, the scent of her breath tangy with the sweetness of baked beans, her feathers tickling Flaire’s neck. She shook with a shocked little laugh, squeezing Flaire in return.

“You are the Wonderbolts, Fairy. You’re worth all of them combined, then or since.”

And Fairy said, “I know it."

Maybe the grief would never fully leave her. Flaire had carried it inside for more than thirty years. If she woke one day, touched her chest, and felt the absence of it — would that be a terror, or a comfort? She didn't have an answer. But she knew the name and shape of every part of the equine body. She knew the nature of wounds. They longed to close. And as Fairy embraced her, she felt those seams tighten around her heart.

When they parted, Flaire gave a firm salute, performed with a hoof rather than a wing. “Soar high today, Future-Admiral.” She smiled, truly and genuinely. "I look forward to making your admiralty uniform for the day you lead the Seventh Squadron." She winked. "And I may even be convinced to include polka dots in the patterning."

Fairy laughed, a bead of moisture catching on her lashes. “Yeesh, lady. And you told me not to get mushy.”

—

The stallion at the V.I.P. box unclipped the velvet rope. Flaire entered with a nod, finding her way to her seat. She had the clearest view of the show, overlooked from a nearby shop balcony that had been rented out for the event. Flaire could see the second floor window of Beware the FLAIR from her seat, looking in through the glass rather than out. She caught the faintest indication of her reflection, the pale face of a distant ghost.

Missus Flash, as always, was among the V.I.P. crowd. Flaire hadn’t spoken with her since Whinnyapolis. Sometimes, she wondered how much the gentle-mannered mare knew. If her husband had sat at their bedside weeping the night after Flaire told him what his show had done to Clarity. Had he looked into her sweet blue eyes and admitted the awful, sudden weight of his guilt? Or, had he been rendered unable to speak, too ashamed, the curse of silence now his to bear? Flaire would never ask.

At the end of the row, Flaire saw the flushed face of dear Paisley Pincushion, a Wonderbolts flag clutched in her hoof. Her disapproval of Flash was short-lived, eased after Flaire explained that Swift Kick was recovering safe at home, and that the article had not been her story to tell. Flaire had discreetly slipped Paisley a V.I.P. ticket along with her owed bits at one of her recent excursions to the textile shop. She had already turned to leave when Paisley started squealing.

Settling into her seat, Flaire reached into the pocket of her dress, withdrawing a cigarette from her pack of ever-reliable Marelboros. Her horn clicked with a spark as she lit up, the smoldering cherry casting a low warm light against the cupped sole of her hoof.

The sound of slow approaching hooves was behind her.

“Excuse me. Are you Flaire d’Mare?”

The question was cloyingly familiar, but the voice was not. It had a warm, authoritative timbre, and despite the question, spoke with the foreknowledge that its asker already knew the answer.

Flaire lifted her gaze to another white-furred face — meeting the soft rosy eyes of Princess Celestia. The air between them was warm and sweet-scented, a preternatural heat wicking from the Princess’ divine coat. In the dim, pre-dawn light, she glowed from within.

Flaire became very aware of the jittery animal nerves beneath her hide. “Yes,” she breathed, her cigarette wobbling between her lips. “Pleased to meet you — your highness.” She was unsure of the correct manner of greeting, the degree of obeisance to be offered. But she was never a mare for deference. So, she remained as she was, frozen in the V.I.P. box, sharing air with the Princess of Equestria.

Celestia smiled. “The pleasure is all mine, Flaire. I’m impressed by all you’ve done for the Wonderbolts and wanted to thank you personally.” She laughed in a remarkably innocent way. “And, I wanted to ask if you would be available for commission in the near future. This year’s Grand Galloping Gala is approaching after all, and I’ve been remiss to not have a d’Mare original in my wardrobe.”

“Oh. Certainly, Princess. Come by any time.”

That was all Flaire could say to such a request. A personal commission from Celestia herself, an opportunity most couturiers would kill for. It should have shocked her more than it did. But shock was familiar.

A low rumbling started up, the drumline rattling their snares. The murmurs of the crowd erupted into a cascading cheer as the Wonderbolts marched in formation onto the stage. General Flash was at their center, wings held wide. “Altius Volantis!” he exclaimed, his voice carrying with all its weathered might.

There was a great sigh from the Princess of the sun. “The Wonderbolts have always been dear to me. No matter how many performances I see, I am always moved. But I tend to become… especially sentimental at the Summer Sun Celebration.”

“Oh?” Flaire glanced upward. And she asked, already suspecting the answer, “Why is that, Princess?”

Celestia smiled placidly. “It reminds me of the worst day of my life.”

The Wonderbolts navigated through a twirling aerial formation, sweeping over and between one another, trailing silvery clouds of smoke. They were lithe blue silhouettes in the sky, spotlit from behind by the Mare in the Moon.

Flaire swallowed. “Ah, yes. The history, the legend. General Firefly’s first performance, the year following Nightmare Moon’s defeat.”

Celestia nodded, never losing her smile. Her eyes didn’t leave the stage.

“My little ponies get to live in a world full of wonder,” she said. “And I go on living in a world without my sister.”

Flaire’s heart pounded. Her chest ached, an old familiar pain tugging at the seams of her inner wound. She took a long drag from her cigarette and breathed smoke into the dark air. She pulled the Marelboro box from her pocket and offered it to Celestia. “Care for one?”

Celestia curtly shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t indulge my vices publicly.”

“Oh.”

Out above the stage, Fairy Flight cut a clear path, leading a trail of her wing-mates. They swept into a spinning circle, executing the Ringlet and encircling the moon.

Flaire asked, “How do you think I'll be remembered?”

This time, it was Celestia's turn to say, curiously, “What has you wondering?”

Flaire scoffed. “Because everypony seems to think my name will be in history books some day. And, well…” Her eyes moved up over Celestia’s figure of alicorn resplendence. “You'll be there to see it, if it is.”

Celestia nodded. “Indeed, an unavoidable truth. Well, Flaire, how might you like to be remembered?”

The Ringlet burst apart like a firework. Fairy Flight dropped into a solo aerial dance, splinted hooves held above her head in triumph. Even from a distance, her shining, elated grin was visible.

“Ponies have called me a good mare. I have a suspicion that’s how history will recall me. But, that’s so… incomplete. I didn’t do this because I was good.”

Her eyes turned to the sky, blue and open and free. A place that could hurt you.

“I did it because I was afraid.”

Celestia hummed. “The books about me are already being written. They tend to call me ‘good,’ too.” Her head tipped to follow Fairy Flight’s departing path, and she said, “I suppose none of us have control over what is lost in our accomplishments.”

An elaborate formation began to take form, the drums a rolling swell of thunder. The Wonderbolts darted and weaved, near collision, never touching. And through their center, erupted General Flash. He exclaimed, hoof outstretched, touching the stars: “Altius Volantis!”

The crowd wailed.

And the sky was dark.

“Oh,” Celestia gasped. “No lightning this year.”

In the beautiful darkness before dawn, Flaire d'Mare clenched her teeth on her cigarette, awaiting no thunderclap.

And she smiled.