Tonight's livewriting: pony Xmas stuffs! (Patreon)

Will finish this story tomorrow, do one quick edit pass, and post it immediately!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LLwfG7t_f1afA1MX3ARmBUm7SSANV3yVZXDPLgRnE_o/edit?ts=5c08bfe9

Saving Hearth’s Warming

By Kris Overstreet

At some point foals and fillies give up their belief in Santa Hooves. Perhaps they saw Mom and Dad at two in the morning, well before the dawn rose on Hearth’s Warming, putting extra presents under the tree. Maybe it was one too many bad actors playing the jolly spirit wearing obviously fake antlers at the local town square or farmer’s market. But, for most ponies, Santa Hooves was a thing one outgrew, then missed, and then taught to one’s own children as part of the generosity and fellowship of the season. 

Of course, it was obvious. Santa Hooves couldn’t exist, could he? Nothing lived in the Great Northern Wastes beyond Yakyakistan, unless you counted windigoes. How could rabbits built mountains of toys for the ponies? Why didn’t this infinitely good spirit visit griffon homes? And how could he visit hundreds of thousands of pony homes in a single night? It made no sense, obviously.

But, even as they scoffed, many ponies had vague memories of staying up late and seeing the immense reindeer coming down that tiny, tiny chimney. Or they remembered their parents arguing about the wonderful, wonderful present that neither of them had bought. Or they woke up early in the morning and found deer tracks in the snow outside, despite the nearest deer living hundreds of miles away… and none of them being big enough to leave those huge prints…

In the skies above the great mountains of the north, through the heavy-laden snow clouds of Hearth’s Warming Eve, a cloud of a different sort flew against the wind, ever northwards. Flecks of bright yellows and blues and greens zigged and zagged across the loose formation, not stopping, not resting. Some moved up to lead a group, while the prior leaders fell back into their slipstream to recover some energy. At a time when every other flying thing had gone south or into winter quarters, these fliers flew on, into the coldest of the weather, across the mountains east of the Crystal Empire, deep into the ancient frozen wastes. 

Their destination, when they reached it, turned out to be nowhere near the north pole, but had any ponies been among the flyers they might have supposed otherwise. The building had seen better days, but it yet stood. Snow almost completely concealed the pink tile, and icicles hung from the faded blue shutters closed to the eternal northern winter. But warm, welcoming light streamed through the slats in the shutters, and in the gateway leading into a courtyard swept mostly free of snow stood a tiny bipedal figure, wearing thick winter clothes of red trimmed in white fur. 

The flyers landed, one by one, forming first a mob and then, by silent consent, an organized grid, row by row, column by column, a swirling mass of all the gentler colors of the rainbow. Landing took some time, and the sun drifted towards the horizon as the little figure in red waited for the flyers to finish. 

Finally, after a minute of no landings, the tallest of the flyers, antlers proud in the late afternoon light, stepped out of his row to look across his charges. “Um, I guess everybody made it,” he said in a tone that oozed deference to the world at large.

“Not quite, my dear Thorax,” the little creature in red said. “There is one still on the way.” 

And sure enough, low on the southern sky, there was another fleck- not bright and colorful like all the others, but purest black. The assembled flyers watched with growing concern as the fleck grew closer, staying low, until it landed well behind the group. That flyer, kicking a bit of snow out of a hole in her foreleg, strode slowly, unconcerned, through the back and middle of the crowd, ignoring the thousands of eyes staring at her. 

When she got to the front of the crowd, she spared the tallest one not so much as a glance, walking straight up to the figure in red. Then, with the greatest dignity, she bent her forelegs, resting on her elbows, bowing her head. “We who remember,” she said, as reciting an ancient ritual, “return to honor the ancient pact.”

After a pause and a nod from Thorax, the others chanted, “We who remember return to honor the ancient pact.”

“Food for service, service for food,” the black one continued, and then with a snarl she could not suppress, “generosity for generosity.”

This time without a pause, the thousands of colorful fliers repeated the formula.

“Once more we pledge our service to the Gift-giver.”

“Once more we pledge our service to the Gift-giver.”

“Once more we accept his eternal gift of love and life.”

“Once more we accept his eternal gift of love and life.”

“Let those who remember forever honor the name of Moochick.”

“Let those who remember forever honor the name of Moochick.”

The little figure in red shook his head, hobbling forward on a little wooden cane. “Remember, remember!” he muttered. “You’re all thousands of years too young to remember! But here you are, here you are.” He looked around the crowd before him, all but the youngest of them standing taller on four legs than he did on two. “I suppose you’re better at remembering me than my sweet ponies, tsk tsk tsk.” 

The little creature regarded the stick in his hand, his eyes squinting a little- or, at least, the bushy white eyebrows moved down a little. Between the white lining of his hat, the eyebrows, and the beard and mustache, it was nigh impossible to find a face underneath when he wasn’t talking. “But I remember,” the little creature said in a quiet voice. “I remember the first ponies. I remember the first Queen Majesty. I remember how they constantly had to ask for help, for this was such a horrible, oh yes, a horrible world back then, horrible for defenseless, silly, silly ponies. Then they needed the Moochick, oh yes, yes.”

The Moochick glanced over his shoulder at the mansion. “This was their home, once,” he said. “I gave it to them. With all the latest, yes, the latest conveniences. The ponies only reinvented most of them in the last, hm, the last hundred years.” He sighed. “The pool’s still there. Frozen forever, alas. Too bad. But they grew too many, and they moved out, and they moved on. The eldest legends today mention times when ponies lived in Paradise. Now only the Moochick lives in Paradise, and remembers.”

The black flyer shifted on her kneeling hooves, but said nothing. 

“But they finally grew up,” the Moochick continued. “Up, and out, and all about, they grew. They became less silly, less helpless.” He sighed. “Less innocent, too. And less in need of others to make their problems go away. They can be their own heroes now. And their own destroyers too. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Um, Mr. Moochick, sir?” Thorax asked. 

“You are in the presence,” the large black flyer hissed, “of the great Moochick! You will be silent!”

“Um, mother? I’m, um, pretty sure you can’t give me orders anymore,” Thorax replied, not sounding sure at all. 

“Ah, yes, speaking of changes,” Moochick said, stepping forward and waving his little stick. Something lifted the black flyer off her elbows and back to a standing position. “I see you’ve had quite a change, yes, quite a change indeed since last year. For the better, I think. Well, all but one.” Moochick sighed. “But true change comes from within. We cannot change until we are ready.” The beard twitched, and a glimpse of teeth was visible through the hair; Moochick was smiling. “Why, I’m not ready to change myself! No, no, my mushrooms are gone, the forests and meadows are gone, and my silly, foolish, selfish ponies are gone, but Moochick remains, and I just can’t seem to stop giving.”

“We know, sir,” Thorax said. “That’s why we’re here.” He looked at the black flyer and added, “Even Mom… um, Chrysalis… I guess.”

Chrysalis glared at Thorax, at her former subjects, and then at Moochick. “We were afraid and starving,” she said. “We came to you, and you gave. Now I come to you again.” She shot another glare at her transformed hive and added, “I don’t know why they’re here, though.”

“We come because we’re grateful,” Thorax said. “Mr. Moochick didn’t have to give us love to get through the winter. But he did. And now we don’t need to take love to live, but we return anyway, because we want to do the right thing. As long as Mr. Moochick needs us to be Santa Hooves, we will. That was the deal.”

Chrysalis nodded. “That was the deal,” she said. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Moochick said. “I’ll still feed you, Chrysalis. And for the rest of you…” A couple of white snow rabbits hopped out of the front door of the mansion, carrying a large sack between them. “I think Hearth’s Warming presents for all of you will do nicely, now that you can appreciate them.”

“Work first,” Chrysalis muttered. “Let’s get it over with. Where’s my list of naughty ponies?”

“Um, actually,” Thorax muttered, then continued in a more firm voice, “I think it’s my time to be the Ogdeniw this year.” 

“I quite agree,” Moochick said. “I know you enjoy being the Ogdeniw, but the ponies are changing again, oh my yes. A new Ogdeniw, yes, a new Ogdeniw for new times! Besides,” he said, waving his cane, “I have a very special pony child, yes, who needs a very special Santa Hooves!”

A slip of paper appeared in the air in front of Chrysalis. She took it in her forehooves and read it aloud: “Bloo Shine, #7 New Cobblers, Ponyville.” She looked at the Moochick. “All right, so where’s the gift?”

The Moochick shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no, Chrysalis,” he muttered. “Like I said, this is a special case, I said.” The old gnome looked at the ex-queen and said, “If it were as simple as delivering a box and eating some cookies, I wouldn’t need to send a queen, now would I, now?”

“Well… that’s true,” Chrysalis said. “If this is a special case.”

“Mom,” Thorax said, a tiny hint of crossness seeping into his quiet, polite voice, “you’re holding things up for the rest of us.”

“Fine,” Chrysalis growled. “The sooner I leave you traitors, the better.” She gave the Moochick one last look. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done. Be ready to fulfill your part of the bargain.”

“Oh, Chrysalis, Chrysalis,” the Moochick chuckled. “When have I ever failed to give what I promised? Give more than I promised, even?”

“As long as I get what I deserve.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” the Moochick said. “I would never give you what you deserve. Only what you need and, sometimes, what you want. How horrible it would be if everybody got only what they deserved!”

Shaking his head at this nonsense, Chrysalis spread her hole-riddled wings and took off, buzzing south with the same determination she and her former changelings had flown north, as the sky darkened with the setting of the sun and the raising of the moon. 

Behind her, tens of thousands of changelings assumed a single disguise- that of a large, overweight, merry reindeer in a costume mimicking the Moochick’s clothing- and accepted presents with tags from one white rabbit after another, with the Moochick watching and nodding in satisfaction. He couldn’t give to the ponies himself, not anymore. But with tens of thousands of helpers, he could give enough to keep the spirit of giving alive, and that was what mattered.

And in the darkness of Hearth’s Warming Eve, Santa Hooves of all sizes took off from the snow, galloping across the skies, to all corners of Equestria and the Crystal Empire, each with a present- or, in the case of Thorax, a large bundle of switches and a list of deserving recipients. 

And ahead of them, one other Santa Hooves flew, giftless and alone.

Number Seven on the unpaved Ponyville street named New Cobblers by the Equestrian postal service was a standard, narrow, two-story cottage, thatched roof covered by snow, eaves hanging with holly boughs and red ribbons, smoke rising from the chimney, all snug and smug just like the rest of Ponyville.

Chrysalis hated it.

Chrysalis hated all of Ponyville, with its smug houses full of smug ponies. And she hated each and every individual pony in the town. She hated the buildings, including the smug shops, the smug town hall, the smug fountain converted to mini ice rink, everything. She especially hated the smug crystal castle just outside of town, with its smug alicorn princess and her smug friends with their smug rainbow friendship magic which, if any of them knew Chrysalis was on their smug little streets, they would use to smug her right in the face. 

More so than most of Equestria, Ponyville had a major case, in Chrysalis’s mind, of smug pollution. 

And here I am, she sighed, about to contribute to it. At least it’s only one pony, who three years from now will probably think I was a dream anyway- assuming I don’t find some way to conquer the whole useless species in the meantime. 

For a shape-changer, entering a house through the chimney of a lit fireplace is not the most difficult thing in the world. What went in the top, through the roof, was Chrysalis, but what materialized on the bottom, well away from the fire irons and grating, was a Santa Hooves every bit as large and festive as one would expect… except this Santa Hooves’s smile never reached the eyes, which retained a hardness around the edges that no amount of shapeshifting would ever remove. 

Chrysalis hadn’t played Santa Hooves in decades. She much preferred being Ogdeniw. Terrorizing some horrible brats was always so much fun, even if she wasn’t allowed to spirit them away like the old legends said. And each Santa Hooves visited only one house, but Ogdeniw had a full night and dozens of deserving pony brats to put on the straight and narrow path back to growing up to be perfect, brain-dead prey. But here she was, no switches, no chains, not even a darn present to give to the little fetlock-biting… 

She took a deep breath, thought of the love that the Moochick had always given on Hearth’s Warming morning- enough to keep a changeling, even her, full for a week. Maybe she didn’t have an inner Santa to channel, but she could at least cage up the outer predator for one night. That done, and with her disguise firmly in place (except for that bit around the eyes), she began investigating the common room on the first floor.

Whoever Bloo Shine was, Santa Hooves was being generous to her this year- Santa, spelled P-A-R-E-N-T-S, no doubt. There were three large presents under the tree labeled FROM SANTA already. That seemed… odd. Usually the Moochick only sent changeling Santas to homes where the parents couldn’t afford a Santa present at all, or where they couldn’t afford a particular present that, according to the Moochick, would change that pony’s life. A three-present brat shouldn’t even have been on the list… well, maybe the Ogdeniw’s list, but not Santa’s!

And then there was the traditional cookies, milk and carrot by the fire. Some houses only had the carrot. Some only had hay, not even being able to afford a carrot. But they always reeked of love and generosity… at least, they did in homes that weren’t due a visit from Ogdeniw. But, as Chrysalis sniffed the food… no, not a drop of love here. Instead the snack stank of sadness and confusion. Bleah.

Chrysalis took her investigation upstairs, to the bedrooms. Moving silently was a skill practically born into every changeling, and more so changeling queens. (She refused to acknowledge herself an ex-queen. She was still breathing; ergo, she was still a queen.) She found the parents’ room first, saw them cuddled together asleep under their blanket, love oozing through the quilting. But she resisted the desire to snack, even as hungry as she’d been in the months since her overthrow. The Moochick would know… and you did not cross the Moochick. Never. Moochick might forgive betrayal… but forgiveness was the only gift you’d get ever again.

The next door opened onto a little filly’s room. (The dolls and flower pictures were a welcome hint; with a name like “Bloo”, Chrysalis hadn’t been able to guess.) And where the loving parents had tasted delicious, the bed in this room stank of the same sadness that contaminated the cookies and milk downstairs. 

Chrysalis stood in the doorway, thinking. All right. This is a reasonably well-off kid with disgustingly loving parents, she thought. And no way would this be the first year Santa Hooves was so generous to her. She ought to be dreaming happy greedy dreams of all the new goodies, right? 

“Who’s there?”

Oh, lovely. The brat isn’t asleep.

The disguised changeling queen stepped quietly into the room. A bit of magic channeled through “Santa’s” antlers lit the room just enough for the sky-blue unicorn filly with the white mane and burgundy eyes to see the big, smiling reindeer in the red suit. “Good ev-” Chrysalis coughed, realizing she’d forgotten to change her voice. “Excuse me,” she continued in a deeper, flawlessly masculine tone. “It’s cold outside tonight.”

The little filly sat up in bed, squinting a little. “Are you Santa Hooves?” she asked. 

“The one and only.” Compared to the enormous lies Chrysalis told on a daily basis as a matter of survival, this lie was nothing. “I left your presents under the tree. You got extras because you were so good and didn’t try to peek.”

“Thank you, sir,” the filly said unenthusiastically.

Chrysalis suppressed a sigh. The Moochick had sent her here on some special mission, and she couldn’t think of any other way to get it over with than… disgusting as it was… talking with this little girl about her… blech… feelings. “You know,” she said in the Santa voice, “I know when you’ve been bad or good… but I don’t know everything. And right now all I know is that you’re sad.” She walked over and eased herself to a seat on the end of the bed. “Would you like to tell Santa about it?”

The unicorn filly sighed. “I was gonna make a special gift for my parents,” she said. “I just learned how to bake cookies. And I got this extra-special recipe, and I was gonna make it for them for Hearth’s Warming! But when I went to the store to buy the ingredients… they were out of eggs!” Tears ran down the filly’s face and around her muzzle. “And I couldn’t get any anywhere else! So now I don’t have anything to give my parents this year!” Bloo sniveled and said, “And they’ve been so nice to me this year, I feel just awful!”

“And you’ve been nice to them, I know,” Santa Chrys said in a gentle rumble, all the while thinking, I may throw up. “But let me think about this for a moment…”