THE SWIRLING MENAGERIE
VOLUME I
Written by Solanon

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PART I
UNCONVENTIONAL TRUTHS
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******

>Mater Solis awakens, and you along with Her
>Though you see nothing from the darkness of your quarters but for a sliver of light at the edge of your vision, you KNOW She is risen
>Her energy is great, and Her spirit infallible and shared among you and your sisters
>What is you, is you. And what is Her, is Her. But what is yours and Hers is all that you see and think and feel
>These are the sensations by which She communicates herself to you
>Not directly, for Her voice you cannot yet hear.
>But the time is near, this you know to be true
>Time for the Matron Celest to bestow upon you the power to witness a portion of Her divinity
>Your thoughts are scrambled. Confused and uncertain in the darkness, you remove yourself from your bed
>You scratch your tired eyes with a hoof to summon away the drowsiness
>The sliver of light across the room, but a taste of Mater Solis, grows brighter, thicker, and stronger as it crests past the windowsill
>Now the stone room is cast in a soft hazy morning light, and in this light, you may better see
>Not with your eyes, though there is much to see with them, but with your heart and mind
>You had awoken from a shameful dream, yes, one in which you presupposed to know the Matron Celest’s wishes for your fate
>Ascendance? At your age? Don’t be ridiculous
>How this thought could even have entered your humble, stupid mind was all but inconceivable
>The work of a Naiad, perhaps? A tempter of the Depths?
>Or perhaps… something even more sinister
>No… nothing is more sinister than a demon so foul, that which leads ponies to drown in ignorance
>Ignorance of Mater Solis, of her endless devotion to ponykind, of her great and wise nature
>In any case, you should not deign to predict the Matron’s actions, not even within the mists of the dream realm
>You are but a humble disciple, and this you shall remain until the time at which you have been deemed ready
>After relaxing your spirit by offering a libation of words to Mater Solis, you turn from the windowsill and take in your surroundings
>These are not your normal quarters. Where normally you sleep alone, you share these with three other disciples
>They are other Sisters of Solemnity, like yourself, who have been tasked with making the morning meal for the rest of the convent
>You must awaken at first light, before all other sisters, bless the Breaking of Day with the usual offerings, take to the proper ritual of cleansing within the kitchen, and mix the mushroom broth which will be served to everypony at the strike of the Ninth Hour
>This assignment, which has lasted now for nineteen days, will continue for the duration of the month, at which time another group of sisters will take on the task
>As usual, you are the first to rise; the other three are wrestling with their sheets
>You decide to intervene
“Come, sisters. The dawnbreak has arrived. We can’t dawdle each and every day in this fashion.”
>The one named Orange Swirl, her long lavender mane tightly wound into the traditional knot of the Sisterhood, groans and tightens her blankets
>”Five more minutes?”
>You smirk.
“The dawn waits for no mare. Up, sisters.”
>Resigning to their fates, the three cease their struggling and depart their simple cots
>Joining you in the doorway, they appear to be less than prepared to do their duties
>Much less enthusiastic
>Not you, though
>Each day this month has felt like a greater blessing than the last, having the chance to acquaint yourself with the radiance of Mater Solis in a way that is not always available to you
>Single file, the four of you exit the bedroom and, crossing the landing over which the lower halls might be glimpsed, you enter the washroom to don your robes
>Each robe, folded and stacked upon one another in a single neat pile, is wine-colored with bright yellow accents, and the sigil of Mater adorning its flanks
>You retrieve the robe on top and, careful to do so in just the proper fashion as is coded within the scripture, drape it across your body, tying the simple yellow ropes about your midsection to keep the garment in place
>Nothing is sweeter than following the instructions of the scripture to the letter
>Just to convince the frantic part of your brain that you have done exactly so, you step over to the mirror on the far wall to examine yourself
>The mirror is not for self-admiration, you remind yourself again and again as you prepare to look upon your own visage. Your face is nothing, only an aspect of the vessel that carries your shining spirit
>Taking in a deep breath, you raise your head to look on the reflection
>Satisfied with what you see, you lift a forehoof off the floor to grasp the shroud collected at the back of your neck, and pull
>You keep your eyes squarely focused on your reflection as she mirrors your motions, covering with the burgundy hood her dark mane
>Covering her ears, her scalp
>Covering that bony protrusion jutting from her forehead, a symbol of her blaspheming
>A symbol of the hubris of ponykind, who dared to try and match the magic which Mater Solis mastered
>You’ve no use for it, nor for magic
>You are a Sister of Solemnity
>You are Twilight Sparkle
-
>You stand at the cusp of a pot of broth, taking in your handiwork
>For nineteen days now, you and your fellow sisters have made it fresh each morning for the entire convent
>It has been one hour since you awoke. Now, the doors of the dining hall swing open by automation, and three hundred mares, each sporting the same robes as yours, enter in three lines across the threshold and towards the serving table
>Wordlessly, they each step up in turn, taking the ladle in hoof and pouring a helping of broth into their bowls
>Once all others have been served, you are allowed to help yourself and be seated
>Your bowl in hoof, you sit at the nearest table, and soon your three morning service sisters join you
>They are Orange Swirl, a pegasus; Cherry Berry, an earth pony; and Blossom Delight, a fellow unicorn
>These sisters, all of whom you have made close acquaintances with in your time here, have nevertheless become somewhat closer in the last several days
>What once was friendly acknowledgement has become fraternization, an opportunity only afforded by mealtimes
>”Did you hear the news about the construction?”
>”What construction?”
>”Another one of those ghastly labor towers going to be built not four blocks from the convent, to the south. A clear patch of sky in that direction, such a scarcity these days, masked in stone grey.”
>”No! I sit at the corner of the Sun Garden on the elevated mound sometimes and gaze in that direction. Something else ruined by blasphemers.”
“When could you possibly have the time to gaze, Cherry?”
>”Whenever I can catch a break from prayer, Twilight. It could do you some good to gaze sometimes, you know.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that at all. Besides, having a break from prayer means you’re praying too fast. Recite slowly, Mater commends patience.”
>Orange Swirl snorts
>”Regardless, sisters, you just know that if it weren’t for the zoning plea which the Matron bargained out, they’d be building them right to our east and west too.”
>”To blot out the rising and setting sun. What manner of creature could love the darkness so much as to willingly entrench themselves in it, nay, to build it around themselves?”
>”The worst of it is out west. I overheard a food supplier say that in Las Pegasus, they’ve built massive grav-platforms, designs ripped straight from the New Maker’s Handbook, and dotted them all across the city. Imagine, monstrous floating discs underneath which eternal night is cast, all in the name of creating more space for the heathens to reside in the skies.”
“I don’t want to sound condoning, but what use could the pegasi with their flight magic possibly find with… you said, ‘grav-platforms’?”
>”Therein lies the good news, if one could call it that. That zealous Cult of Exsilium has gained a militant foothold in the west these past few months, and have made it dangerous to practice magic. The news is slow, but as it stands, it seems as though the Blight is receding from that whole part of the world, replaced by a foundation of Maker tech.”
>”If you ask my opinion, Maker tech is no less an affront to Her than the Blight.”
>You stare down Blossom, who recedes slightly in her posture
“The Blight of magic is the enemy of ponykind, Blossom Delight.”
>You use her full name to emphasize the severity of her indiscretion
“Meanwhile, Maker tech comes from the earth, Her natural counterpart.”
>”The designs, however, do not. They come from elsewhere and are just as indecipherable in their nature as magic. Twilight, surely you know that what is unnatural to the mind is unnatural to the Syncresis?”
>The Syncresis. A phrase you had never thought would be turned against you
“I don’t find it unnatural. I find it fascinating. In fact, I’ve expressed wishes in the past to the Matron to modernize the convent based on descriptions of-“
>”Twilight! Here I thought you were a purist!”
>The words leave Orange Swirl’s lips in a joking tone, but you can tell there is derision in them
“Orange, if you truly believe that my devotion to Her Radiance is incompatible with my interest in Maker tech, then you sorely misunderstand me as a pony and as Her servant.”
>To your surprise, Orange Swirl is seemingly uninjured by these words
>Rather, she stifles a laugh
>”The fact of the matter is that you simply cannot know enough about the stuff to pass judgment on its applications.”
“And I suppose you do?”
>”I know what is wrong in my heart. As should you, Twilight. You’re worrying me with this talk.”
“Your worry is unfounded, sister. I’ll admit I hardly understand the wonders of the Makers any more than any of you do. But I do know one thing: that it is not synonymous with the Blight, though it may seem to be as mystical. There are underlying explanations for all its functions.”
>”Celestia explains the function of her magic in Verse 4003 of the Ninth Book. She describes it as-“
“As ‘a swirling menagerie of change, a poetry which recites itself, an infinite pool from which to draw the power of undying Mother, and as it is mine only to draw upon, do well, you children of ponies, to listen no more to its recitations, and find solace in the condition of your lessers, who cannot do as you do.’ Yes, I know. It’s hardly an expression of working knowledge.”
>”And yet she knew its functions in a perfect way, and for this reason denied her faithful the permission to use it on behalf of the Mother.”
“The Prophetess knew only what was spoken to her. The mechanisms belying Maker tech were known by the Makers as absolutes.”
>Cherry Berry re-inserts herself into the debate
>”So I suppose if somepony were to develop a map of magical functions as absolute, they would cease to be Blight? Is this your contention, Sister Twilight?”
>You curse silently, immediately offering Mater Solis an invocation of regret for even imagining such language. They’ve cornered you.
“Th-that isn’t what I meant. Besides, the Blight is inherently unpredictable.”
>”What is unpredictable now may one day be fully encompassed in our realm of understanding, but that does not make the Blight any less of a blasphemy. Knowing what evil is capable of does not dispel or even diminish the severity of that evil.”
>You sink into your seat
“They are different, Orange Swirl. I may not convince you of that, but it’s what I believe. We are allowed small conveniences that the Makers invented in this convent by the Matron, but magic is expressly forbidden. Would you call her judgment into question?”
>”I…”
>You’ve got her now
“Sisters, I hardly think the Matron is a hypocrite. Her will is the will of Mater, for Mater speaks through her and all other Matrons across Equestron. Mater Solis does not reject Maker technology. Celestia did not hate the Makers; she was merely humbled by them. I’m offended that you would even compare their creations to magic in the first place.”
>With that, you finish off your broth and set to work at collecting the empty bowls of some of the faster eaters in the dining hall
>From the corner of your eye, you see your sisters exchange worried glances
>They concern themselves with your opinions when they should be concerned about their work
>Glancing around, you see several sisters with eyes firmly locked on your hurried figure, no doubt having listened in on your conversation
>Perhaps that last part was a bit too loud…
>You worry that they may think less of you for being so callous with them
>You’ve never been very… tactful, to say the least, when it comes to your opinions on such matters
>You swallow the pride that has so often gotten you into raw situations and return to the table, where the rest have finished their bowls
“Sisters, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be coarse. It’s just that-“
>”Twilight.” Orange Swirl stands, taking one last gulp of her broth. “I pushed you. I suppose I should have known what would happen. You’re a mare with strong opinions on certain things.”
“We aren’t mares here, Orange. At least, we shouldn’t be. We should be only servants of the Sun.”
>”Should servants not find different interpretations of the same commandment?”
>You smile softly.
“I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

******

>A bell rings.
>The great bell, to be precise
>It is outfitted with an automated timer, nothing too fancy, just a magnetic oscillator which runs at just the right frequency to measure out the hours of the day
>It was an early little trick presented to ponykind by the Makers over a thousand years ago, and yet this one was only installed in the convent relatively recently
>On the hour, the pulse from the timer triggers the bell mechanism, while also running through additional wires as electrical currents spread all across the building
>These pulses would trigger little clanging bells inside boxes about the size of a hoof to alert those in rooms where the great bell was not audible
>You had studied the masses of wires within the walls on occasion, and even repaired them once or twice
>You are the only one who ever bothered to learn how
>It’s easy to imagine that when you’re gone from the earth to the Mother’s Garden, nopony would bother to maintain them, and the small luxury would fall into disrepair as so many others have
>You’ve lost yourself in thought again
>You, along with a group of about forty other sisters, shuffle across the wide courtyard at the center of the convent
>The great bell continues to boom within its residence above you, in the bell tower
>Cherry Berry, Blossom Delight, and Orange Swirl march to your left, their heads bowed, their mouths moving wordlessly
>You do so as well, mouthing the Litany of Praise over and over
>You are careful not to allow the edges of the robe draped across your form to drag along the ground
>Each pony in the crowd is shrouded, so as not to allow the light of the sun to touch their eyes until after the morning study has begun
>A grouping of plain wooden benches is set up before you, lining the dewy grass in neat rows
>Before them, a small altar, three stairs high, and atop it an earth pony whom you know all too well
>You seat yourself beside your sisters, and the service begins
>The mare on the altar mutters an inaudible phrase, though you know well its meaning
>She lifts her muzzle ever so slightly, swaying her head side to side, her eyes closed to the world, her mind open to Her Radiance
>She speaks, loudly enough to hear this time
>”Mater Solis fas liberare capita phaleras humilitatis. Lucem permittit nos intuemur tuum et grati estote. Gloriam quasi decima hora vestra liceat ordinari. Nos gratias ago vos Mater Solis, in hac die et in omnibus diebus.”
>As the final syllable of the ancient tongue leaves her lips, the bell at last ceases its tolling
>Ten strikes.
>All at once, you, the sisters seated all about you, and other sisters in your field of vision trotting across the courtyard remove your hoods, allowing the light above you to wash over your countenances
>The spring Sun is the most beautiful, you have always conceded
>Others claim that honor goes to the summer Sun, when Vestal Celestia emboldens Her with warmth
>Others still prefer the winter Sun, which blazes above a frozen land as a sole beacon of faith
>But for your part, the spring Sun is golden and glorious, warm and lasting, pleasing and easy to please
>”Rise, sisters, recite the Litany of Truth.”
>As one, you and your thirty-nine sisters stand and whisper in tandem.
“Blessed is the truth of Celestia as it is spoken through her by the Mother of wisdom and compassion. Blessed is the word of the prophetess of the Goddess, it is Truth, it is to be praised. I am humble, I am bound to Her by Her will, and Her word is my law. What She wills, She commands in my heart, and I am entrusted to deliver Her will to the nations of the world. Praise be to Her, the Goddess Mater Solis. Amen.”
>”Sit.”
>As you do so, the mare steps down from her podium and walks down the center “aisle”, a space between two groups of twenty chairs each
>Her pitch black robe flows gently behind her as a cool breeze picks up in the yard
>Slowly, deliberately, she speaks
>”The Fable of the Mountain Pass. When the prophetess Celestia crossed the mountain Fillai to warn the villagers at its back of an impending flood, which would sweep away their homes, drown their crops, and cause great mayhem and even death to all who experienced the wrath of the Naiads, she came across an old stallion guarding the narrowest point of the mountain pass. She inquired unto him, ‘Why, sir, do you stand guard here, when there is no home to be found in these mountains, nor anywhere in sight?’ The stallion replied, ‘I have no home but the pass. I guard this pass from the invaders that once defiled my home, and may do so once more. If they should overpower me, I shall run back down the slope to the village and warn my kith and kin of their doom.’ In turn, Celestia spoke unto him, ‘A greater doom than nomads comes. A furious flood shall overtake this pass and sweep into the valley below, bringing horrible misery to your kith and kin.’ The stallion simply replied, ‘I see no flood, nor the rain that might bring it. I see only you as a threat, bringing dark news to worry my people. I shall not let you pass and encumber them with your false words.’”
>The Matron Celest stops upon reaching the last row of chairs, turning round on old joints and marching back towards the altar, her head held high
>”Celestia had wings. She could fly over this stubborn pony and deliver her warning regardless of his approval, for she had seen the flood and its lethality. She could overpower him, for he was frail, and she mighty. But, for a moment, she sat with him, and shared a glance. She asked him who numbered among his family in the village beyond the pass, to which he replied, ‘I am the only son of a glassblower. He is dead now, as is his wife.’ She asked him who numbered among his friends in the village, to which he replied, ‘All those I knew once have passed into nothing. Only I remain of a time which remembered pain.’ So Celestia asked him this: why did he call them his kith and kin, and why did he devote his life to defending them from tyranny, when he knew not their names, nor their faces? The stallion replied, ‘It is my burden to bear, and I bear it gladly, so that others shall not share my fate.’ To which Celestia said, ‘You protect the villagers without knowing them, for their bliss is Truth in your eyes. Yet you deny my word that there is danger looming, for you cannot see it? Your hypocrisy is plain to see.’”
>Turning once more, the Matron focuses her eyes, scanning the expressions of each sister in turn
>Her eyes seem to lock onto yours for a moment longer than the others
>”The stallion stood, and offered this: ‘I know you, Celestia. You were a princess once, and as a princess you told lies. But when the first of the Makers came and cast you out from your temple, you came to see the light of Truth, and weighed it against the judgment with which you had been born. Your hypocrisy is ever plainer. You seek to save lives, yet you refuse to save your own.’ Referring, of course, to the Prophecy of the Prophetess, which by this point had become common knowledge in the land of Old Equestria. In some versions of the story, usually those intended for foals, Celestia convinces the stallion by his own turn of phrase to let her pass, and he does so, and she warns the villagers, and they evacuate. But in the more common version, and this is the version we will be discussing, Celestia turns back, her acolytes in tow, and retreats from the pass, and the village is flooded, and the villagers all drowned.”
>The Matron pauses for emphasis, offers a brief prayer, then speaks aloud once more
>”The message is cryptic, but let us analyze what has happened. Celestia’s words were the Truth. They came from her own sight, her own knowledge of the situation at hoof. She was not deceived in this, and she made the conscious effort to warn the villagers. Yet when she backed down, she was not reprimanded by Mater Solis; in fact, she was commended for her insight and for taking a step down the path to perfection. Perfection, for being convinced by an old stallion in a pass to abandon what she knew was right. Of course, we all know why she did it, in the end. Does somepony want to show off their knowledge? Twilight, perhaps?”
>You blush slightly, and stand
“Because the old stallion was an avatar of Mater Solis. Because his word was a greater Truth than even Celestia could hope to counter.”
>”Good. This is supported by many writers, and has come to be taken as the best interpretation of the fable. But, you will note, nowhere in the fable is this expressly stated. Implied, perhaps. But let us imagine for a moment that we are Celestia, and we cannot say for certain that this old stallion is anything but just that. Let us even throw away our understanding of the Truth altogether, and say that neither party has the extant high ground. What then, in terms of pure logic, might be the reason that Celestia turned around and left the village to their doom?”
>Out of the corner of your eye, you see a light blue hoof shoot up into the air
>”Sister Bluebell?”
>The yellow-maned sister stands, and briefly recites a prayer under her breath before speaking
>”I’ve always considered the fable to show that Celestia, though a prophetess, was not infallible, and that she realized that her hypocrisy was greater than that of the stallion. Where hers was the ultimate futility of not knowing if her efforts would save Old Equestria from a dark fate while also resigning herself to a fate that she could prevent by not choosing to follow the path she did, the stallion’s was simply that he refused to believe what he could not see when he existed solely to defend a perceived innocence that he also couldn’t see.”
>”A valid point, Bluebell. Good answer. But there is something else to this fable that is often overlooked in interpretation, and that is the role of her acolytes. Though they followed Celestia and obeyed her wishes, they would hardly stand idly by as she abandoned her own cause if she were not justified in doing so. Simply weighing her hypocrisy against that of another should not make Celestia’s quest to save the villagers any less noble, and yet she abandons them all the same. Celestia was not hypocritical in her life’s work per se, but solely in this moment. Saving the villagers from the flood was never about their lives, it was about preserving the land they walked upon. Though the flood ravaged that soil, today it is fertile, and has been for nearly a thousand years. The acolytes knew this when they recorded Celestia’s teachings. So, then we return to the stallion’s final words to Celestia: ‘You seek to save lives, yet you refuse to save your own.’ A phrase that would seem to apply to him as well.”
>The Matron Celest swipes her hoof through the air, a show of finality
>”The old stallion was not Mater Solis, but Celestia herself. His hypocrisy was not tantamount to her own, it was equivalent. The ponies of the valley were Old Equestria, and the flood its future. The most crushing of sacrifices, all hanging on moral principle, and all involved let it pass. When two hypocrisies meet, one must give in to the other. But Celestia learned her lesson that day, and the village, its denizens, and the old stallion were drowned. He had exchanged the wisdom he bore to her for death. Ultimately, it was Celestia who was victorious, even at the cost of her own life.”
>In your mind’s eye, you see the wires in the walls shorting, corroding, failing
>In time, there will be nothing left of them
>”Now, Sister Lavender Hoof, will you kindly distribute the study books? Everypony, please turn to page 172, and recite after me…”

******

>The great bell chimes eleven times
>The morning study session has concluded, and gradually the sisters around you stand and stretch
>Cherry Berry yawns, raising her forehooves into the air
>”Was this the longest study session we’ve ever had or what?”
“You’re only tired because you refuse to adjust to our new sleep schedule.”
>”My body sleeps when it wants to sleep, I have no control over it. The Mater guides my cycle as she deems proper.”
>”That’s a long-winded way of calling yourself lazy, Cherry.”
>You can’t help but stifle a giggle at Orange’s comment
“Sisters, *hmph*, calm yourselves. Group meditation begins in fifteen minutes.”
>Blossom Delight suddenly gasps
>”Naiads drown me. I think my blindfold slipped out of the pocket of my robe. I can’t find it.”
>”I’ll help you look for it in our quarters.”
>”Me too.”
>As you prepare to offer your own assistance, a voice calls out your name from behind
“I… I’ll meet you three at meditation!”
>Your sisters trot off across the sunlit courtyard, and you turn to face the source of the voice
>The Matron Celest stands before you, her old eyes smiling with wisdom
>”Sister Twilight. Come walk with me, child.”
>You obey, and the two of you set off at a slow gait towards the stone path bisecting the yard
“I didn’t know you were leading the study session today, Matron. Is Sister Freshleaf well?”
>”She is not sick, if that is your question. I’ve given her the morning off, and all the rest this week, so that I might directly engage with each group.”
“It caught me off guard. But you made for a wonderful instructor.”
>”I should certainly hope so. I only served in the position for 34 years before my current standing. What did you think of the little excursion at the beginning?”
“The mountain pass? It’s always puzzled me. But your insights were fascinating. Who could guess that after all this time, new cases could be made about Celestia’s true intentions?”
>”Celestia was a complicated mare, Twilight. Those who claim to know absolutely the Truth of why she did what she did to serve the Mater are either fools or liars. All we may offer are guesses. It’s simply the best we can do.”
>Coming to the end of the stone path, you walk into the shade of the overhang
>Turning left, the slotted pillars adorning the edge of the inner path make a slideshow out of the exterior yard as you move past them
>A group of filly initiates, led by a sister instructress, seems to jump to a new spot every time you are given the chance to glimpse them
“Matron… why did you ask to see me? Am I in trouble?”
>The Matron chuckles, and your gaze is diverted back to her eyes
>Twin grey pools stare back at you
>Her sight has been gradually failing her for years, yet she does not require a guide in these halls
>She knows this place as a mother knows her foal
>”Twilight, you ask me the same question every time I pull you aside from your peers. You are not a filly anymore, and I cannot discipline you as I once did. No, I require your presence for… other matters.”
>The two of you turn once more, this time passing beneath a stone archway leading into the interior of the convent
>With another left turn, you realize at once she is leading you to her office
>This was the path you once took whenever you needed the guidance of this great mare
>She had been, without any shadow of doubt in your mind, a mother to you
>The closest you had
>She had stepped outside the boundaries of her position on numerous occasions to nurture your growth, for you had seemed to her a prodigy of sorts
>At least, this is what she had told you
>You refused to believe you were special simply because you had been dropped on the doorstep of the convent rather than initiated proper
>But it had led you to cross paths with the wisest pony who has ever existed
>To be close with her, and to share in her knowledge, was and is a treasure to be coveted
>You utter a silent prayer of libation to Mater and find yourself standing before twin oak chamber doors, immaculately carved with images of fire-breathing dragons, solenoidal angels, and other evocative imageries
>Without a word, you open the doors, letting the Matron pass through first, and then following in tow
>The Matron’s office is a fascinating room, one where many of your fondest memories were created
>Soft velvet carpets of varying, exotic patterns are spread symmetrically across the flooring, a far cry from the stone tiles which make up the floor of most of the convent’s chambers
>The painted walls are decorated with fabrics which flow in the gentle breeze circulating through them from the open windows
>Copies of paintings depicting important moments from the Twelve Books of the Sun line the walls, many of them tilted on their hooks
>You’ve long suspected the Matron tilts them on purpose to make them more noticeable to the eye, and therefore more powerful
>The Matron Celest takes a seat at her rich mahogany desk, and gestures for you to sit across from her on one of the curved wooden chairs
>By her left hoof, there is a brass telephone, the only one in the entire convent
>The Matron sighs deeply, and begins
>”Twilight, I am about to say some things. You may not like to hear them. This is my warning to you beforehand.”
>Your throat tightens, and your hindlegs begin to shake beneath the desk
“I knew it! I am in trouble! Oh, Celestia forgive me! Matron, I deeply apologize for whatever my transgression may be, and I promise you I shall repent to the best of my-“
>”Twilight.”
“Sorry.”
>”You aren’t in any trouble, child. But you are deeply troubled, and that is plain to see. You haven’t come to visit me here in my office for some time. And though I’d like to believe it’s because you no longer need my guidance to find the right path, it’s clear to me that the opposite is true. What is preventing you from coming to talk with me, as we once did?”
“I’ve only been busy, Matron. That’s all. The first light breakfast duties, morning study. I’ve been studying alone much more often recently. I’ve taken up interest in sewing, too. If you’d like to see some of my designs-“
>”Yet. Something else pulls at your heart.”
“There’s no point in hiding it then, is there? From you.”
>”Or from anypony else. Even my tired eyes can see the longing written across your face. I know that you desire to be ascended. The question is, do you think that you deserve such an honor?”
“I’ve dreamed of it for years. To be at your side, for that to be a requirement of my position here. To take on all the responsibilities that entails. Matron, I-“
>”Do you deserve it?”
>You struggle for words, before taking on a resigned posture
“I don’t know. I… I feel ready, maybe. But I just don’t know. Everything I’ve done since the age of seven has been in service of becoming a Sister Solaris. I want to know Mater Solis’ Truth, her will, everything, from instinct, not just through study. Don’t get me wrong, Matron, I love the texts, I devote every waking hour I have to myself to understanding them, criticizing them, knowing what they represent. But to witness Her glory, even a piece of it, directly, as you do… it would be worth ten thousand lifetimes as a disciple.”
>”Yet you have only lived a fraction of one.”
“I know. And I know that my thoughts are selfish. And that I should never presuppose your intentions for me. But I can’t help it. It comes to me in dreams, the thought of being a Sister Solaris. I’ve justified them as temptations of the Naiads, but in truth, they are simply my own thoughts, free from persuasion.”
>The Matron Celest reaches across the narrow desk, wiping away the tear which has manifested on your cheek
>”Twilight, I shall say this only once. My will is the will of Mater, and my Truth her Truth. So you may understand that my judgment in this is absolute.
>You cringe, bracing yourself for a great emotional blow…
>”It is my opinion that you are not ready to ascend to the position of Sister Solaris.”
>There it is
>You sink in your seat, eyes cast downward to hide your shame, heart cast into oblivion
>How could you think that at only seventeen, you would be considered for such a high honor?
>You find yourself infinitely more distraught that you thought imaginable
>Yes, it was hubris that put you in this position, hubris and false hope
>Prodigy or not, you were not ready
>Perhaps you never would be…
>”No, Twilight, you are not to be a Sister Solaris.”
>You are nearly too emotional to hear the Matron’s words
>”You shall be the Matron Celest.”
>
>
>

******

>”Twlht…”
>”Twiiiiilhhh…”
>You groan
>Colors begin to take shape out of the darkness, materializing from infinite shadows
>Your hearing, too, gradually returns to you, as though you were resurfacing from the depths of deafening waves
>Why are you lying on the floor?
>”Twilight?”
>A voice, somewhere, somehow
>The voice you heard in your dream
>What a terrifying dream you just had!
>To imagine that the Matron would say something so inappropriate, so shocking, was nearly blasphemy in and of itself
>”Twilight, are you alright?”
“Whuuu… what?”
>”Twilight, you passed out. You fell out of your seat.”
>Your eyes snap wide open
>The colors cease their swirling and take definite form
>The strange sounds rippling within your eardrums become recognizable
>Oh, dear Celestia… oh, Prophetess of the Sun and the Stars…
>That was no dream
“Matron…”
>”Is your head alright, child? You’re swimming.”
“I’m… okay. I’m alright, Matron. Just a little hazy, that’s all.”
>Another voice whispers behind you, one you cannot bring yourself to turn and face
>The Matron disappears for a moment, then returns to your field of vision holding a glass of water
>”Drink this, child. Pick yourself up.”
>You do so, gulping down every last drop in a second and a half
>Only in the moment that the cool liquid washes down your throat do you realize how dry it had become
>Slowly, trembling with every movement, you set the empty glass down on the carpet and lift your shivering body off the floor
“M-Matron, I…”
>”Shhh. It’s alright, child. I understand completely. You mustn’t justify your reaction to me. Though I must admit, it was quite a bit… MORE than I anticipated. I’m simply happy you didn’t hurt yourself falling off that chair.”
>You are dizzy, uncertain
>Conflicting thoughts slam against one another within your brain
>At last, you conjure up a complete thought
“How? How could you possibly believe I’m ready for something like that?”
>The Matron smiles warmly, placing her hoof upon your wither
>”Twilight, you’ve become a devout sister, a learned young disciple, and a worthy acolyte of Celestia’s teachings. You have spent the entirety of your life within the walls of this convent. Your peers, Bluebell, Orange Swirl, the others… they came here of their own volition, when they were old enough to understand what being a sister here meant, and yet none of them share the devotion to Mater that you have. You were barely a day old when I found you at the common shrine in the front garden, and on that day I promised to do all that I could to foster your growth into what you have already become. There was no favoritism involved. I did not extend additional honors towards you, nor did I allow you to shirk the responsibilities you were given. I only ever offered you guidance, Twilight. I wanted to see you become a Sister Solaris, and perhaps, eventually take on my responsibilities when I am gone. And yet…”
>The Matron turns away from you, shuffles across the carpet, and stares longingly out the open window into the light of the sun
>”I am old. Far too old to consider the possibility that I might continue to lead you naturally into my position. Before long, I will pass, and there is nothing that can be done about that. What I wanted for you can no longer be. When I pass into the Mother’s Garden, Sister Freshleaf or Sister Tenderheart shall take my place. When this occurs, there is no guarantee that you will live to become my successor. You, too, shall grow old, as a Sister Solaris rather than in the position you rightfully deserve.”
>This is all far too much to take in
>You breathe in, then out, focusing on the meditative practices which you were taught from a young age to relieve stress
“Why me? Why nopony else? Who am I to be the Matron Celest? To replace you?”
>”Let me answer your question with a question, if I may. What do we mean when we talk about the Blight?”
“The Blight? It’s the dark consequence of ponies using magic in cheap imitation of Mater Solis. It’s a mockery of the faith, and it turns the hearts of ponies black.”
>”Precisely. And what is the single unavoidable consequence of the Blight, that which even the Sisters of Solemnity, the most devout practitioners of Mater Solis’ will, cannot prevent themselves from indulging? Not even me?”
>You know where this is going
“The cutie mark. When a sister taps her potential, the Blight inexplicably marks them with a symbol of their talent for life. An unnatural event, and unexplainable as all magics are. Nopony can prevent their cutie mark from manifesting. Except…”
>”Except for you, Twilight.”
>The Matron approaches you, lifting the tail-end of your robe from your flank, revealing…
>Nothing.
>”Your flank is untainted by the cutie mark. Even now, beyond any reasonable timeframe during which you might have attained it, you are pure even of that aspect of the Blight. As time passed then, when all others of your age began to receive theirs, you never did. I daresay it is a sign of divinity.”
“But-“
>”Ah, but to say so, nay, to even think so, may be blasphemous. And above all, a Matron shall not be blasphemous. She shall not assume the nature of the Truth that is fed to her by Mater, she should only accept what she is given, and make of the world which She created, only what is known. Which brings me to my final justification, and by far the most important.”
“Matron, if I may interject. I just don’t know if I’m capable of handling anywhere near the level of responsibility which you handle on a daily basis. I’m not ready.”
>”Twilight, one thing at a time. To answer your concerns in a brief sense, to shortly be elaborated upon, you are not ready. But soon you will be.”
>This comment leaves you even more confused
>First she says you’re ready to be a Matron, now you aren’t?
>How is your blank flank alone an indication that you should receive this position on a silver platter?
>The Matron seems to notice the puzzled look on your face, turning her body and walking towards the far wall
>She stops before the largest painting in her office, raising her head seemingly to admire it
>Slowly, you walk forward and plant yourself by her side
>The painting depicts the prophetess Celestia in her radiant glory, having only just been denied entry to her own palace by the Makers, who had forcibly taken it from her
>She stands tall upon a rocky outcropping, one foreleg raised, her body poised in its revealing nudity
>After a time, all depictions of Celestia, in keeping with the modesty laws of the church, dressed her in the black garments of a Matron Celest
>This painting is of an older era, one which enforced no such rules on faithful artists
>Exposed in a barren land, devoid of her people, with nothing but the Truth of Mater Solis to guide her, Celestia is nevertheless unshaken in her resolve to release Old Equestria from the shackles of its ignorance
>Her face, positioned directly in front of the rising sun, is awash in shadow
>It is possible to make out its features; the curve of a muzzle, the soft glimmer of wet, shining eyes, the faint contour of a pair of closed lips
>But, at a glance, it appears that her countenance is tastefully invisible
>”Twilight, I have been informed that you’ve been involved in numerous arguments with other sisters about the value of Maker technology.”
>Your cheeks turn bright red
>”You are quite adamant that its mystifying nature is incomparable to that of magic, and therefore it should not be viewed in the same light by the Sisterhood.”
“I… yes. I know it’s a controversial opinion, but yes. I believe that if somepony knows how to build such contraptions, then we, too, could learn. Compare that to the Blight, which only comes about because magic is inherently unexplainable.”
>”We use the word ‘unexplainable’ far too often when describing magic, I think. We see that aspect as the primary quality which we reject when dealing with its associations. Of course, besides the inherent teachings of Celestia about the dangers of the Blight, and its nature as an affront against Mater Solis, as most tactfully put in the Litany Against Magic. No, magic is not the enemy because it is unexplainable. Magic is the enemy because it is not ours to use.”
>The brush strokes individually are nothing; mere colors upon a canvas
>But together, such a beautiful image they create
>One of longing, humility, fear, passion, Truth
>”Our convent, and all convents across Equestron, are allowed by the rules agreed upon by the Sisterhood two hundred years ago to employ small Maker innovations as mere conveniences. We would not allow them to automate our duties, nor would they fundamentally alter the methods by which we serve our faith and Mater. They would simply make our lives within the convent a tad easier. But, alas, then came the New Maker’s Handbook. An astounding discovery, no doubt. Tomes upon ancient tomes left behind by a Maker society, discovered in an archaeological dig in the Badlands, and instantly set upon by decipherers to discover its meaning. Millions and millions of advanced designs that vastly compounded upon those machines which ponykind had already employed, and which rendered what had once been formally taught to our species by the Makers entirely obsolete. With the right materials, the proper precision of craftsmanship, and the research into their mechanical ways necessary to comprehend the designs, any of them could be built with our own hooves. It was undoubtedly the single most important discovery of the millennium.”
>The Matron sighs
>She appears lost in the whorls of lily white oil paint which constitute Celestia’s figure
>You are lost as well, deeply enamored by this familiar painting in a capacity that you never had been as a filly, spending so much time with the Matron in this very office
>”Of course, the Sisterhood rejected it. These designs were too complex, too unknowable. Surely at a certain level, the technologies of the Makers were indistinguishable from the Blight? It was decided that the rules laid down about the allowance of their inventions within the convents of the Sisterhood would not apply to those designs discovered in the New Maker’s Handbook.”
>The sun’s rays, immaculately portrayed as shining arrows radiating from the centerpoint of the entire piece
>White gold paint, no different in its composition than any of the other colors mixed to create the painting, and yet it seems… something more
>Something beautiful
>”I went along with their decision. In fact, I staunchly agreed with said position. But one of the most difficult lessons I have ever learned, in my advanced age, is that senescence is not an indicator of wisdom in all things.”
“Matron, what are you talking about? You’re the wisest mare I’ve ever known!”
>”We cling to our devotion to a past that is all but forgotten all about us. We, the old guard, those ancient enough to remember a time before the New Maker’s Handbook, find peace and comfort in what we once knew to be absolute. But those like you, the young, the unsullied, are imprinted upon by our will, our truth.”
“Your Truth is the Truth of Mater Solis. You’re privy to Her word.”
>”I am. But Her word is cryptic, and Her intentions are mysterious. I am not a translator, Twilight, I am an interpreter. And as one Matron might interpret the will of Mater one way, another might see things differently, and alter what is written. My fault as a Matron, my greatest flaw, so to speak, has become my blindness to the changing world out there, and my inability to change along with it. As I agreed with the law of the Sisterhood then, so too do I now. Even now, as my most devoted disciple, she who I have always called my prodigy, she who has pored over every word of every text in our library a thousand times, she who studies far more intensely than any of her peers the word of Celestia and her interpretation of the Truth, even as she STILL, in spite of all this, advocates so strongly for the integration of New Maker technology into our faith, I cannot bring myself to agree with her. Twilight, this is the one issue which I simply cannot reconcile with you.”
“I know that. And I’m sorry, Matron. I know I shouldn’t be starting arguments with other sisters. But I can’t help but believe that what is within the New Maker’s Handbook is the future of our faith. These discoveries could very well bring us closer to Mater Solis, not push us away as does the Blight! I… I cannot compromise on that. And I don’t think my mind will ever change on the subject.”
>”There’s no need for apologies, Twilight. Besides, you didn’t let me finish.”
>Celestia’s mane, an amalgam of color, muted shades of pink, silver, scarlet, green
>The colors of the sun, the colors of nature
>All represented by mere swashes on what was once white
>That something so powerful could come from the mind of an artist, and physically only from the raw ingredients of his trade…
>Canvas, oils, dyes…
>Perhaps it was an expression of Mater’s magic
>Not the Blight, not the imitation, not the ultimate blasphemy
>No, REAL magic, Her magic, what was Hers alone, shared only with Celestia
>”I cannot reconcile my stance on New Maker tech with yours. However, this is precisely why I want you to replace me when I pass on.”
“That… hardly makes sense, Matron. No offense.”
>”None taken. To name as one’s successor somepony whose views on what is unequivocally the most important question of our time are diametrically opposed to one’s own would seem insane from a practical perspective. But as I told you, my weakness is my inability to let go of a world where my perspective was absolute, and dissention was nonexistent. Your peers believe what I believe because it is what has been ingrained in their minds through rigid study and my own ordinances. But you, among all of them, are untainted by those teachings. Yes, I would call my own instructions a taint, for they are incompatible with reality. I cannot break from what I have believed my entire life, no matter how hard I try. But you, Twilight Sparkle, can change the fate of this entire faith with what you believe.”
“Matron… what you’re suggesting is that I should become the Matron Celest of this convent solely to promote an idea which you yourself have always vehemently opposed!”
>”I’m suggesting that you give the faith no other choice. That you give me no other choice. I am old, and I am blind. I have raised a prodigy, and her flank is proof enough of that to me. I have my opinions, and you have yours, but as it stands my word is the Truth of Mater Solis, and yours is simply that of a disciple. Were you Matron, you could do what I could not.”
“Even as Matron, I couldn’t hope to reverse a decision that affects all the convents, all the monasteries, all the devout of the faith across Equestron! Even that wouldn’t be enough!”
>”Your words ring true, Twilight Sparkle. As Matron, you could not do these things. But perhaps as a Supermatron…”
>For the first time in what has felt like an hour, you rip your gaze from the intricacies of the painting and look squarely into the grey eyes of your mother
“S-S-S-Superm-m-matron?”
>”I have seen it in dreams. I have contacted five other Matrons Celest of five other convents in five other cities, and they all have witnessed the same Truth. There will be a Supermatron of the Faith within ten years’ time, an acolyte who is all but an incarnation of Celestia herself, with all her gifts and knowledge, all her magic, all her strength, all her will. One who shall guide this faith into a new age.”
“There hasn’t been a Supermatron marked by the stars in four centuries!”
>”Mater’s Truth is the only Truth. She has spoken to me, and all others. The time is now. I can only imagine that the mare of which She speaks is you. You, and you alone. My prodigy.”
“I… I don’t…”
>”Twilight?”
“Yes?”
>”Try not to pass out again.”

******

>You are Cherry Berry
>You are worried
>Sister Twilight has been missing all day!
>After helping Sister Blossom recover her meditation blindfold from your quarters in the Sun Tower, you expected to find Twilight already waiting for you in the darkroom
>But no such luck
>The Matron Celest had called her away from the rest of you earlier, after the study session had concluded
>You found your meditation cycle somewhat perturbed, what with anxiously waiting to hear her hoofsteps mark her arrival
>When you removed your blindfold, she was not there
>When you entered the dining hall for lunch with your sisters, she was not there
>When you retired together to your quarters for personal study and prayer, she was not there
>Now, departing those same quarters to attend Sister Tenderheart’s afternoon congregation, descending the narrow stairs with Orange Swirl before you and Blossom Delight behind, you are becoming increasingly nervous
”Sisters, I’m still concerned about Twilight’s whereabouts. Surely she has not been with the Matron all this time?”
>”She’s close with the Matron, you know that. They could very well be lost in conversation as we speak, having missed the whole day.”
“Perhaps. Regardless, it’s unlike Twilight to shirk her daily responsibilities for idle chit-chat. If she’s with the Matron still, I can’t help but wonder about the importance of their conversation.”
>”You think something big is about to happen to Twilight?”
>”It couldn’t be THAT, if that’s what you two are thinking.” Orange Swirl moves aside as she reaches the bottom of the staircase, letting you and Blossom pass. “She’s far too young.”
>”She studies more intensely every day. The Matron or Sister Freshleaf shouldn’t take notice of that?”
“It isn’t her work ethic that matters, it’s her youth. It’s plain to see what Twilight wants, but surely she can’t hope to ascend at such an age? The Matron herself was 33 and already an instructor when she was ascended, if I recall correctly. Meanwhile, Twilight is… well, our age.”
>”And that should disqualify her from the honor? Age is no written factor in becoming a Sister Solaris.”
“You’re correct, Blossom, but I simply can’t see it happening. And I can’t imagine that Twilight could expect it to happen either. The basis of this entire conversation is built on a presupposition of an event that may or may not even be taking place.”
>”I… do agree with Blossom in one regard. If anypony will ascend to the position in any due course, it will be Twilight. The Matron has always favored her.”
>”That’s not fair, Orange. Twilight stands on her own merits.”
>”Her merits are her studious nature, her immense devotion to Mater, her wisdom beyond her years, and her willingness to take on any task without question. Am I missing anything?”
“That about sums it up.”
>”Indeed. But she is also too quick to judge her fellow sisters, despite the fact that she holds some choice opinions that the Sisterhood at large would find most unappealing if they were ever made aware of her status. She’s shown signs of impulsiveness, she can be most temperamental at times, and she lacks a yearning spirit.”
“I object to that last one. Is being focused on the good of the convent rather than idly dreaming of life beyond these walls such a bad thing? I do my fair share of yearning in private, but I see no reason that a lack of such expression should be reprimanded. Really, it should be the opposite.”
>”You have to wonder, though, about a mare who has spent all her life within these walls, yet shows no interest in exploring what lies beyond. Never once has she applied for a mission, never has she asked questions of those who have returned from their missions.”
“You’ve never applied for a mission either.”
>”I’ve no ambition for Solarity. All I’m saying is, it’s unnatural to say the least that-“
>”Stay your tongue, Sister Orange Swirl!”
>Your eyes widen, and you head jerkily swivels to take in the hard, stern expression on Blossom’s face
>She is usually so mild-mannered…
>”I don’t know how you normally conduct yourself within task groups, but to call somepony with whom you share your bedchambers ‘unnatural’ sounds very rude to my ears!”
>”I didn’t intend for it to sound that way, Blossom. My apologies.”
>”There’s no sense in apologizing to me, Sister Orange. Say the same to Twilight, wherever or whenever we may find her.”
“Blossom, I’m surprised you’re so quick to defend Sister Twilight when she directed her own impulses towards you just this morning, at breakfast.”
>Blossom simply hardens her gaze, this time locking it squarely on you
>”We are all servants of Mater Solis. Twilight exerts her service in her own way. We don’t agree on choice matters, but the faith isn’t about dogma, not like those lecherous Exsilists on the borderlands we hear so much about from the vendors. No, the faith is about the Truth, and the Truth is interpretable. I could never see what Twilight sees, but perhaps that only means that I lack the insight she has on those matters.”
“Sister Blossom… your humility is admirable. As is your loyalty to a friend.”
>You smile at Blossom Delight
>Her breathing slows, and she smiles bashfully back
>”I don’t know what came over me just then, sisters. Nor can I pretend to understand what Sister Twilight believes she knows, or what she wants to know. But I’m certain that if this meeting entails what we think it entails, Twilight could very well be ready, even at her age.”
>Orange Swirl appears to ponder for a moment
>”Even if you’re right, Sister Blossom, it isn’t merit alone that grants ascendance. In all likelihood, Twilight will have to partake in a mission. She’ll have to journey into the Temple of the Eyes in Crystallatia and train under the priests there. She’ll have to spend months in self-isolation, developing a thesis.”
>”None of those are requirements for ascension.”
>”But they do bring favor.”
“Which Sister Twilight already has in spades with the Matron.”
>”I won’t deign to know the Matron’s will, and her Truth is absolute as the Truth of Mater. But from a mere pony perspective, it wouldn’t bode well with the faith if the Matron Celest of this convent displayed what could be interpreted as blatant favoritism. For Twilight’s status to be accelerated down such a path at her age, she’ll need every advantage she can get.”
“You’re saying she needs an excuse to be as worthy as she already is.”
>”She needs several. And I remain skeptical of exactly how worthy she really is, despite all the points Sister Blossom has made.”
>There is a pause in the conversation
>Having been lost in the abstractions of discussing Twilight’s fate, imagining the places she might go, the things she might be compelled to do, you suddenly realize the three of you have walked almost half the distance to the Hall of Sermons
>A buttressed archway passes over your head, and you take the time to notice its intricacies
>Carved festoons, reliefs of garlands, twisting vines and sunflowers, the long, narrow faces of nondescript disciples jutting from the edges
>All modeled by hoof, not by horn or any other means of artificial assistance
>The architecture of the convent truly is something to behold, even with your narrow frame of reference
>All here bespeaks warmth, solace, an expression of the light of the sun, a show of the Truth for its beauty
>All around you, wherever you go, are modest displays of true craftsmanship, devotion to the faith, and the splendid quaintness which you had come to adore
>Often, you sit quietly within the walled Sun Garden, the light of Mater shining directly above, the trees rustling in the breeze, and each time you do you find yourself more and more thankful for what you have here
>You yearn, this is so, for what is beyond, but you always leave that place contented and with a renewed sense of devotion
>But in those moments, as you trace the intricate patterns on the walls with your eyes, as you delicately give each flower, each blade of grass its time in the spotlight of your mind, so as not to spoil any one, your eyes sometimes lock on what is in the distance
>And there, past the grisly black steel of the labor towers, past the plain, brutal whites and greys of factory stacks and the vast plots of tenements, intertwining and labyrinthine…
>Beyond even the Undermaw, those treacherous slums where you came up as an urchin and from which you were saved…
>Past all of the materialistic flatness and the cold, inequine sheen of the surrounding miles, was something beautiful and recognizable
>Something in the shape of the rainclouds, ever positioned over the basin by unidentifiable machinery
>Something in the tint of the southern sky, always faintly darker and more saturated than the rest of what you could see
>In this haven, and out beyond what surrounded you, in that general direction, were the only places besides Mater Herself up above you could ever even hope of gleaning Her Truth
>You are not and have never been ambitious for that taste, not like Twilight at all
>You barely even understand the feelings which own your soul
>But above all, you are aware in all the ways in which you know that Sister Twilight Sparkle is ignorant
>If she can witness the light, you are privy to the dark
>If she takes for granted the revelry of nurturing in these convent halls, you know a fair comparison
>If she is fascinated by what lies beyond, and wishes with all her heart to know more about what the Makers buried, left forgotten, and which was uncovered and perverted into impossible machines, then you are the opposite
>What you see in the world beyond is chaos and misery, for you see the shapes moving, constructing, standing still, and you know what those forms represent
>Hardly anypony knows how they function, least of all you
>But you know, and have known how New Maker tech inflicts itself on the sanctity of the soul
>How it ravages one’s faith and decency, and hides one from the light of Mater
>You know because you were hidden for so long, only to be found in a state of absolution
>You had never seen beauty the likes of which this place offered in its twin simplicity and intricacy
>The stonework was both humble and extravagant, plain and glorious
>Above all, it had been modeled with intention, each archway, each wall, each pillar chiseled out by the mind, body, and soul of a pony laborer
>How else could Her works be enacted?
>”All I know is, I’d be dreadfully worried if Sister Twilight ventured out there, alone, into Celestia knows what part of the world, without any experience.”
>Your feelings exactly
“My feelings exactly. I know only this city, and the cruelty of which it is capable. Celestia knows what manner of cruelty lies beyond its reach, now more than ever. For Sister Twilight, somepony who has never left these halls, to become a missionary, to attempt to convert those addicted to the Blight… I wouldn’t be able to rest at night.”
>”Fighting in the east. Terror in the west. The dark waters loom all around us, and Naiads drown on a whim. Inner naiads most egregiously.”
>”I don’t want to hear it!”
>You turn
>Blossom stands still behind you, a pained expression cast downward
>The lasting remembrances of past suffering has scalded her mind
“Blossom, what is it? What did we say?”
>Blossom sniffles and struggles to catch her breath
>She’s beginning to cry
>”No, Blossom, don’t… we weren’t…”
“We weren’t speaking in absolutes. We don’t know why Sister Twilight is with the Matron, or why she’s taken so long to return to us. We don’t even know if she’d leave this convent if it was a matter of ascension. We’re only speaking in hypotheticals.”
>”It’s only that… you remember, don’t you, Cherry? My grandfather’s stories, of what happens in the Outlands? The dangers he experienced, the death and disease and misery…”
>”Sister Blossom, first of all, it doesn’t suit you to stand here in the middle of the hall and sob over nothing. Compose yourself in a manner befitting a Sister of Solemnity. Second of all, we do not conduct missions in the Outlands. Not on an official basis. So there is no reason to fuss about Twilight’s fate in that regard.”
>”Yes… yes, you’re right…”
>Blossom blinks rapidly, catching the moisture around her eyes with her long lashes, refusing to shed a tear
>She whispers a prayer, perhaps the Litany Against Darkness, before continuing
>”It’s only that the world has gotten rougher since then, everywhere. I heard that the lev-rails connecting us to Unicronia are being sabotaged by Exsilists. Bands of excoms from Saddle Arabia are pillaging on the high roads and… oh, the violence I hear of! Gunneries and armies of ponies raised from the waters of death and-“
“And myths and fairytales. Don’t you know it’s unwise to listen to the tall tales of every fruit vendor you overhear conversing with the trade sisters?”
>”I can’t help but believe some of these things. After what my grandfather told me, about his time abroad, away from the city, away from safety, I can’t bear to even dream of Twilight, whose experience of that world out there amounts to nearly nothing, going out there and facing those horrors. Not just in the Outlands, within our own borders. Horrors, all around us.”
>”The light of Mater Solis will protect her.”
>Orange Swirl takes Blossom by the hoof and leads her into a walk once more
>You follow close behind, taking notice of Orange’s sudden serenity
>You swear by the Solenoids that you see her left wing flutter beneath her robe, for a brief instant, as if to wrap itself around Blossom’s shivering figure before catching and retreating
>”If the Matron wills that Twilight shall go out there and face whatever trials await her, be it tomorrow or ten years from now, however long it takes for her to find it in herself to ascend, the Matron does so with purpose. She knows that challenge herself, she’s lived it herself, and she would never send Twilight or any of us away from this place if it meant endangering us.”
>”Right… yes you’re right. The Matron’s Truth is the Truth of Mater Solis, blessed be Her countenance which shines upon Her daughters and Her sons…”
>”Good. As I said, Blossom Delight, compose yourself, and come. We’ll have marks from Sister Tenderheart if we’re late for her congregation.”
>There is tenderness beneath Orange Swirl’s defiant pegasus nature
>This much you know to be true
>Wither to wither, the three of you set off at a trot towards the Chapel of the Sunset, towards the peace and enlightenment of a long reading from the Books of the Sun
>As you cross an intersection of two immaculate stone halls, for an instant in the corner of your eye, you swear you see the flash of a purple mane galloping past beyond a decorated archway
>Before you can turn your head, it’s gone
>When your nerves at last react to your senses, and your head twists in the direction of what you thought you saw, you see only stone faces staring back at you from above
>The faces of the faith, humble and passionate
>The Syncresis in what you feel in this moment is immaculate
>Where Twilight has gone no longer matters
>What only matters is where she is going to go
>Archways, vines, gardens, the sky you share with heathens and the naiad worshippers of a faraway land
>All based on hearsay, of course
>All based on presupposition
>It could all be a big nothing, in the end
>None of it could matter at all

******

Find the Truth.
See through it.
Make it yours.
>You lock the wooden door behind you, panting as you struggle to catch your breath
>You just practically galloped across the entire grounds of the convent back here, back where you belong
>You are Twilight Sparkle again
>And everything you knew to be true is decomposing all around you
>Great swirling black things dance in the darkness of this place, afterimages of sensations you are trying in vain to repress
>You feel dehydrated…
>But you dare not open that door again, if only because it would ruin the small sense of comfort you feel in this moment
>You dare not quench your thirst to satisfy a greater indulgence
>Think, Twilight, think
>Remember why you’re here, and what transpired to make you break tradition and come here without permission
>The Matron gave you the day to ruminate on the design she had laid out so carefully for you, so at the very least you don’t have to worry about missing congregation
>Your sisters are probably worried sick about you right now, but as far as you’re concerned that’s the least of your worries
>As your heartrate slows, your breathing takes on a more natural tempo, and you cease your struggle for air
>In your youth, you used to hyperventilate in stressful situations, which were most frequent for you considering your worrisome temperament in those days
>You retain that temperament to some extent now, but the Matron saw to it then that you received formal training in meditative breathing cycles to calm your spirits
>Speaking of your heartbeat, you feel each pulse rippling through your chest; though it has slowed, it continues to pound like a hammer on an anvil, as though it could explode from your body at any moment
>You do not feel calm, you do not feel powerful, you are prostrate before Mater and yet it seems now that no amount of imparted divine wisdom could lift this impervious weight which burdens you
>Calm down… feel the beat of your heart… drink in the light of Her countenance…
>Light.
>You are still sitting on the floor, back to the door which you threw shut behind you, in pitch darkness
Find the Truth.
See through it.
Make it yours.
>Feeling the wall next to you with your left hoof, you snake your touch slowly upwards, patting and exploring its granite surface until finally finding your mark
>You flip the insulated rubber switch, and at once the room before you is flooded with electric light from above
>Everything comes into focus as your squinting eyes adjust
>Piles of borrowed texts are strewn about the edges of the room, their illuminated covers glinting in the artificial glare
>An oak writing desk, its surface almost entirely invisible from the clutter of assorted trinkets which sit upon it, stretches across the left wall, seeming to take up almost a third of the space in this room
>On the opposite wall, a small wood-frame cot, its burgundy sheets neatly made, fills out the rest of the space, leaving a small gap of walking space about a pony’s width and a half across between its edge and the deskchair
>On top of the sole dresser in this chamber sits a small sewing kit, with needles and swatches of fabric perched in haphazard piles within a wood box
>The remaining space to your left, between the front edge of the desk and the back wall of the room, a prostration mat is laid out for morning and evening personal worship
>Gently, you take in one last deep breath, and walk over to the mat
>You bow, haunches above your head, front legs outstretched, before the shining golden sun shrine positioned within an outcropping in the wall
>Closing your eyes and lowering your head, you whisper, barely audible even to your own ears in the silence of this place
“Blessed Mater Solis, You whose trust has been placed in my spirit, You who commands my heart, You whose word is sacrosanct and whose Truth is almighty, forgive my transgression by entering this place in my time of great anguish. I know it is not your wish or the wish of my elders to be present within these quarters while I fulfill my duties this month as an officiant of the Breaking of Day and as a cook of the morning broth. I realize that I must flagellate myself with the hide of the boar for breaking the sacred promise I made to this Sisterhood, and to You. And yet…”
>You choke up, tears flowing freely now
>Your heart has sped up again, pounding like a great engine, circulating that precious life through your body
>Your stress refuses to subside, and yet you must carry on
>She must know what you know
>That is Syncresis
“I need this place. I need to be here, right now. I’ve been issued a challenge, by You, and by the Matron. It is something I do not know if I can accomplish. I don’t even know how to begin accomplishing that. My trust in your will is absolute; this is immutable. I am your humble servant and the idle pawn of your concerns. Mater, why have You brought this challenge to me? Where am I to go in order to best serve You? What might I do in order to appease your Truth? I cannot answer any of these questions right now, and I cannot expect that You might, either. At least, not to me. This is why I need to be in this room, though it is not my place to be here during this month. Your burden is my fallibility. Amen.”
>As you mutter a final libation under your breath, you unbend your back and approach the shrine directly
>Taking the sacred lighter in hoof, you ignite the oils within with a touch and hold its bronzed tip to the wick protruding from the head of the shrine statue
>This holy object can be found in the private chambers of every sister in every convent across the continent, though its form varies from pony to pony
>Yours is modeled after Celestia herself, a small golden alicorn figure facing upwards and encircled by the ringed outline of a burning sun
>Her crown is filled with red wax, and from the wax the wick protrudes
>You allow the wick to burn down about a centimeter while reciting the Litany of Praise, then extinguish it with the tin snuffer placed lengthwise behind the shrine
>Setting down all your implements, you step off the prayer mat and turn around, allowing your familiar surroundings to stir your emotions for a brief while
>Here, in your own private quarters, away from the dormitory which you share with your fellow dawnguard, you might safely ruminate on the task at hoof
Find the Truth.
See through it.
Make it yours.
>The words are etched into the deepest crevice of your mind, as though written there by the pen of some passionate Fury
>You fear… no, you KNOW that you will soon hear them in dreams to come
>They were the words of the Matron, her last words to you before she closed those great oak chamber doors before you
>You were left alone there, in the middle of a cold stone corridor, helpless to grasp what she meant by those words
>Helpless to prevent those rippling waves of predestiny from submerging your hooves, melding them to a concrete path
>This path was inevitable for you; this much you realize
>You are, and have always been, the Matron’s chosen prodigy, born of the convent, untainted by the Blight of magic
>If this is what she has laid out for your future, then so be it
>You are hers to command, for her voice is as much Truth as Celestia’s herself
>A greater Truth, however, exists, that to which you have just appealed
>You are forbidden from entering this place during this month, and consequently from laying eye or hoof upon your personal shrine figure
>Yet it is your one tangible line to Mater, and your prayer was more a plea than a show of admiration
>You need guidance in this moment, guidance that not even the Matron cannot offer
>You need divine guidance…
>No.
>You shudder as you force the blasphemous thoughts from your mind
>The Naiads are tricksters bent on corrupting the soul, deluding it from knowing its true place in the wheel of fate
>You are not fit at all to pass judgment on what you NEED from Mater Solis
>It is what She needs from you which is tantamount
>But, in order to glean that, you must decipher that puzzling litany which the Matron planted in your memory
Find the Truth.
>This is obvious, self-evident even
>To become a Matron Celest, one must enable oneself to see Her Truth in the fullness of its glory
>However, you had almost expected that the Matron’s Sight was something she could bestow on another when the time came, not something you had to find yourself
>But, of course, that would be too simple
“Too simple… too simple…”
>You retrieve one of your lengthier tomes from a stack in the corner and idly flip through its pages as you think
>Find the Truth
A simple request, yet the way to fulfilling it is shrouded in mystery, seemingly impossible to discover on one’s own
>For all you know, you might have to circumnavigate the earth to find the Truth
>Or perhaps you need not ever leave this room
>Either way, if the Matron thinks you capable, you can do nothing but try to surpass her expectations
See through it.
>Now, this epithet was the most bewildering to your ears of the three upon first hearing it
>By the time the fragmented words had collapsed into a complete thought within your distracted mind, you almost saw fit to ward off the temptation of blasphemy right there in the middle of the hallway
>How can one possibly see through the Truth? That which trumps all, which is wisdom divine in origin, the prodigious intent of Mater Solis, her word and her will and her countenance?
>What could it possibly mean to “see through” that which is impermeable, absolute?
>The implication eludes you
>For now, that is
>It is your hope that, in the process of fulfilling the first step of this transition, the shape of the second might be illuminated
“The form of an abstract concept is difficult for the mind to properly discern. For a pony to truly understand something which is not tangible, or can only be defined by seemingly arbitrary parameters, they must…”
>You stop
>What are you saying?
>You narrow your eyes and scrunch your muzzle as you search your surroundings for a clue
>At once your eyes come to rest upon the text of the open book before you, the source of your thoughtless rambling
>You close the book on your hoof to read the cover
“The Fundamentals of The Laws of Electricity and Magnetism as Prescribed by The Elaborations of the Makers.”
>Written 459 by Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes
>Translated 778 from Prench
>The page you had been reading was part of the introduction
>It’s been years since you read this beast of a text through
>You had asked the Matron to order it for you specially when, at the age of about twelve, you were finally granted access to the bell tower
>Seeing all those clumps of wires and bits of metal and timing mechanisms strewn about the floorspace in that highest of chambers made you question how such an elaborate thing could be built by pony hooves
>Of course, the machines were all designed by the Makers in some capacity, but ponies had their hoof in perfecting, retrofitting, manufacturing, and making more accessible each of those meticulously crafted components
>You had spent long nights poring over every detail of this book when you had a break from studying the word of Celestia
>Its contents were hardly intensive, seeing as how at such a young age you could grasp most of what was presented therein
>But to know that such invisible forces not only exist, but are measurable, quantifiable, exploitable
>That was what fascinated you to no end
>All that ponykind has built in the last thousand years, all their technological advancements, all the marvels that seem primitive in this day and age, but which were tantamount to the most costly and decadent magic in ancient times
>All of it came from the teachings and insights that the Makers provided them before their vanishment
>It is a common misconception, you’ve heard, for the laymen of the faith to see impunity in the Makers’ unknown fate
>Some despise them for the manner in which they treated the Prophetess while loving what they’ve built
>But you and those who properly study the Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Books of the Sun know better 
>Celestia was not a prophetess then, when she was cast out
>Then, she was merely the vessel of a soul which had yet to be replaced with the enlightenment of Truth
>Then, she was a princess whose hubris became her undoing
>It was by direct consequence of her walk in the desert, which itself was a result of the Makers’ retaliation upon her great city in the mountains, that she became entranced with the light of Mater Solis
>The Makers were the instruments of her ascension, and for their part in her ultimate fate they were properly to be praised, not abhorred
>You clear your head and return to the text you were reading
>Something in there sounded important to the thought at hoof
“Let’s see…”
>There it is
“For a pony to truly understand something which is not tangible, or can only be defined by seemingly arbitrary parameters, they must visualize this thing in the form of something familiar. Concepts herein will follow this formula: if somepony has no direct experience with the effects of electromagnetism besides their roles in complex mechanical structures such as electric generators, power lines, or oscillatory engines, then they will hardly find it easy to grasp the intangible explanations for the forces underlying those machines. By opening this first chapter of this lengthy volume, you have effectively entered a new world where the laws of the universe may seem to get much more complicated than you might expect. But rest assured that these inner truths of the “miracles” of the Makers have been a part of our world all along.”
>It was as relevant here as it was when you first read it
>When you first experienced the way that this knowledge seemed to bring you closer to Mater than ever
>See through it
>That was the second request, and it seems all but unfulfillable
>An unquantifiable abstract, a meaningless phrase which held nothing but contradiction and blasphemy under scrutiny
>But Her Truth is already a part of you, this you know as well as any sister in any convent
>You must only guide your own spirit down that path to recognize it within you
>Visualize the Truth
>Perceive it as nopony else can, not without the knowledge and the skills which you possess
>Eventually, you may find the intangible thing you seek
Make it yours.
>The final tenet of the Matron’s mission statement, and seemingly the easiest to comprehend
>You shut the book and lay it back down in the stack by your desk
>Yawning, you cross the mid-space and stretch out onto your cot
>The feel of its sheets is different from that of those in the Sun Tower quarters
>But perhaps it is only the feeling of solitude which defines them differently
>You’ve certainly gotten used to having roommates in this short period of time
>Needless to say, you shouldn’t feel so tired at this hour
>But it can’t be helped; your mind has already exhausted its capacity for today
>So much strangeness, so many revelations
>You’re lost in the sea, drowning, tempting the Naiads to pull you under and make you suffer the extent of your own hubris
>You believed you could take on the responsibilities of a Sister Solaris at your age, and now fate has seen fit to punish you for such indiscretions by heaping more responsibilities onto your withers than you ever thought imaginable
>Nevertheless, what the Matron wills for your future shall be the duty which you carry out until the end of your days
>If she thinks you capable of taking on her connection with the Divine Mother, then you will make her responsibilities your own
>Make it yours
>The Truth, that which is spoken to the Matrons of the earth and which powers their resolve, is given through a higher form of Syncresis
>Your Syncresis is simply what you share with Mater as an ordinary mare of the faith
“What is me, is me. And what is You, is You. But what is mine and You is all that I see and think and feel.”
>The Litany of Sensation
>Mater is all-seeing, all-knowing
>She sees through the eyes of all stallions and mares of the world, and adopts their minds as constituents of a greater consciousness
>She is separate from you, no doubt, but on a more transient level you are but a piece of Her
>To make Her Truth your own, and to complete the cycle of ascension, it shall be necessary to understand Syncresis on its most primal level
>You have studying to do
>And more importantly than that, introspection
>You close your eyes and wonder for your future
>Will the Matron send you away from this convent?
>Does your destined path lie beyond the borders of this city?
>Of Canterium?
>You have never even left this convent before, not even once
>No.
>She will not force you from this place, and of that you are certain
>If it is necessary, you shall leave this place of your own accord
>If the call of Mater’s will, and the enaction of your ascension, requires you to go out into unknown lands, to bare your body and soul against the darkness of the Blight, then you are more than ready
>The boxed bells at the center of your back wall softly ring eighteen times
>The little clock you built two years ago, its tiny metal frame exploding with gears and tangled, colorful wires, follows suit
>Splayed out on your soft, soft mattress, head resting against the firmness of your pillow, you fall into the swirling menagerie of sleep

******

>”How now, Sister Twilight Sparkle, whisperer in the dark?”
“A-are you Mater Solis?”
>”I am of her ilk. I come of her light, reflected upon my countenance, beamed to your eyes so that Her brilliance may be comprehensible to you.”
“An angel, then?”
>”My time here is short. I am a bearer of questions, and a conqueror of the fears which plague your spirit. You dream, Sister Twilight Sparkle, and your mind is full of shadow and uncertainty. The load you carry is tall and takes a frightful shape from a certain perspective.”
“The Matron Celest expects so much from my future. My ambition is clouded by something intangible, and the nature of all of this is so unclear. My horn… oh, it aches…”
>”It is encumbered. Speak now of your ambition, and the path down which it should guide you.”
“I thought that’s why you’re here. To deliver that knowledge unto me. I only know the words the Matron spoke to me, nothing more. I know a riddle that’s impossible to solve on my own. I need guidance, but I don’t know where I might find it.”
>”I am no shepherd, nor have I futuresight. My role is that of the interrogator, and the will of our Goddess shall be extracted from your own mind.”
“How can you say that? I don’t know the first thing about being a Matron! Or a Sister Solaris, for that matter! And for her to say, in such absolute terms, that I’m predestined to be something even greater than that?”
>”Walk up the stairs and join me on this landing. I shall whisper my next question in your ear.”
“The stairs are invisible. I don’t see the first step.”
>”The stairs are plain to me. You are blind not to see them.”
“The only Matron I know is blind. Oh, blasphemy.”
>”There is no blasphemy in this place, for you are not right of mind. You suffer no consequences from the basal instincts your animalistic self encourages in you. Yes, she is blind, as her eyes do not see. But her sight is all too clear. The Truth is clear in her mind.”
“I’m coming. No, it’s slippery. I’m going to fall. I can’t bear to come any further.”
>”You are afraid of falling?”
“The fall is too long. Look below me. That void, that emptiness. I’ll fall forever if I slip over this edge.”
>”You shall wake up eventually. You may fall for hours, but your mind shall know when it is time to leave this place.”
“No, no. It’s too far. It’s too long. I c-can’t come any closer.”
>”Then there you shall remain. You cannot see the stairs; you cannot walk forward. You are blind, you are paralyzed, what else does not function in your body?”
“My ears. I can barely hear you. Are you whispering now?”
>”I shall whisper when you come close enough to hear my question. Now, I am screaming as loudly as I can.”
“It’s so quiet. I… I’m going deaf.”
>”Walk. I command you to walk. Mater Solis commands me to command you. Her light shines on you through me.”
“You don’t look like an angel. Angels are solenoidal, they’re coils of burning light. Great hollow pillars, miles high, with thousands of eyes which see all things.”
>”I see all of you. I am present in this world you have constructed. Everything which happens here, happens because you will it. If you falter, if you refuse to face this fear of yours, it shall vanish, and you shall awaken having learned nothing.”
“I’m walking. I can hear you more clearly now. I’m walking towards you. The trench is looking shallower now.”
>”The trench was once a void. Now its bottom is visible?”
“Yes. There are cracks in it, yellow, burning cracks. And water above that. There are great snaking forms swimming inside it. I think they’re-“
>”They are what you fear. Inner naiads. The most dangerous kind. You are exposed in this place to monstrous generalizations, but you see what you wish to see. What are their true forms?”
“Failure. And, neglect, I think. Why is Sister Orange Swirl down there? Why is she riding one?”
>”She isn’t, anymore. Look again. She’s falling off. She’s sinking into the crevice.”
“She relied on it to carry her. She relied on me to pull her out. Now she’s gone.”
>”Does it matter that much to you? Are you going to abandon your walk?”
“No. I’m almost there. I won’t slip and fall. My hooves are spiders. They have tiny legs. They’re carrying me across the burning grease.”
>”It’s grease that makes you slip?”
“Grease from a fire. There was a fire here, not too long ago. Something died in this place, and something else burned it.”
>”Where did it go?”
“To the Sun Garden.”
>”Where did it go?”
“It went nowhere. It turned to ash. It didn’t believe.”
>”Do you believe?”
“More than anypony. I believe what is true. I know nothing else.”
>”You’ve arrived.”
“Yes, I have. I crossed your bridge. I ascended your invisible stairs. Now, ask your question, I beseech thee. Lean in close, so that I might hear your quiet voice.”
>”Where is the Truth?”
“It’s inside me. As are all of Her words.”
>”From whence did Her words come?”
“The Prophetess. She bore them on her back, until they were too much to bear. She cast out the Kings from her home, and she slaughtered those who didn’t believe in her command.”
>”Is that last part really true?”
“No. It’s what I thought would be the rational choice, once. I don’t anymore. It was a filly’s simplification of a complex tale.”
>”She was not infallible?”
“She was greater than any of us. Her word was Truth.”
>”How can you find that Truth?”
“By retracing her hoofsteps. By going where she was compelled to go.”
>”Is her compulsion your own?”
“Is that not Syncresis?”
>”It is my duty to ask questions, and yours to answer.”
“You’re right. I deeply apologize. Syncresis is our unity, through deed and through experience. Her compulsion was what she felt was right in the moment. She wasn’t guided by Mater after she was cast out of her temple. She simply walked into the Badlands, ready to die.”
>”To die?”
“To listen. Her ears were open. And yes, I know what you’re going to ask. Her eyes were open, too. She was not motionless. She laid down only to sleep on that boiling rock. It was never her wish to pass before her time. I’ve been a hypocrite. I… I don’t know where to go, even when I have every route to take.”
>”Compulsion is the greatest motivator, Sister Twilight Sparkle. Without it, your kind would never have made what it has made. What is your compulsion?”
“To leave. There is no doubt in my mind. I need to go and find out what it takes to follow this path.”
>”By the time you discover that, your path will already have ended.”
“Then the path is the discovery. It isn’t hypocritical to say so.”
>”She let those innocent ponies drown. She let the flood come over the rocks. She listened to that old stallion.”
“I thought Mater shone through you. She knew what was best in that place.”
>”And now the soil is fertile. Great machines rise from that valley, machines which sway, and cut, and turn in the wind. There are trees there too, but they are slaves, born to die. They are fertilized by death. A path is open to you. I will not compel you to take it.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
>”Will you retrace the hoofsteps of the Prophetess?”
“In a certain way. I won’t be cast out of this place. I’ll go of my own volition. Even if everypony here tries to stop me, they won’t have the power. I’ll force my way through them.”
>”A solemn proposal.”
“I am a Sister of Solemnity.”
>”Go, then, where machines toil. Go beyond the mountain. That is the first step. Do you see it?”
“I have eyes. I am not blind. It is tangible now. I’m visualizing it now. Oh, there’s something beautiful caught in my eye. I can’t get it out. It’s growing. It’s stuck in my lashes. It’s drying them out. It’s turning ugly. Help me, please!”
>”You’re still thirsty. Sister Twilight Sparkle. My advice? Stay hydrated.”
>You slip
>You fall
>There is water everywhere
>You drink it all in
>It tastes like iron
>They encircle you
>You’re gone
>Gone
>gone
>
>
>

******

“GonegonegonegonegoooaaaAAGGAAAAAAHHAHAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
>”Twilight? Twilight!”
>You are screaming
>Why are you screaming?
>You had a terrible vision
>A… crevice? And a conversation?
>It was all just a dream
>But, then, you think you already knew that
>The bells begin to ring again at a rapid tempo
>You count the strikes by twos
>Two, four, six, eight, ten-
>”Twilight! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Why are you in your quarters? Why are you screaming?”
>”Twilight, please let us in!”
>Twelve, fourteen, sixteen-
>”Twilight? Sisters, she stopped screaming. Do you think she’s hurt?”
>”If she injured herself, then one of us needs to summon Sister Redheart. I don’t think the sanctity of Twilight’s quarters should duly prevent us from helping her.”
>”Of course not. We should be pragmatic in situations like-“
>”TWILIIIGHT! ANSWER US, PLEASE! OPEN THE DOOR!”
>Nineteen strikes
>You slept for a whole hour
>It only felt like a few minutes…
>You’ve missed dinner
>BOOOOOOM
>You nearly leap out of your cot as a penetrating noise breaches your chamber
>Only now do you notice the furious knocking at your door
>Your left front hoof has fallen asleep, having been crushed beneath the weight of your head for so long
>You shake away the invisible ants crawling beneath your skin
>The knocking didn’t make the sound you just heard
>You already know who is out there, and they seem to be getting more frantic by the second
>Sight, sound, movement
“Stay hydrated?”
>Now that you mention it, you realize you were thirsty when you entered this room
>You haven’t quenched that thirst all this time, and now your head is light and your lips are dry and your throat is begging for fluids
>”Twilight? Please, open the door.”
>”She could be unconscious. I’m going to get Sister Redheart. If I can’t find the Matron and I can’t get the key to this door, I’m going to kick it down.”
“NO!”
>
>Silence
>They heard that, at the very least
>Clumsily, carelessly, you remove yourself from your bedding, rolling onto the hard stone floor
>You are reminded of Orange Swirl’s daily morning routine, and her inability to rise at the proper time
>Now it is the evening; the sun is about to set, and you are even more sluggish than she
>Picking yourself back up, you limp towards the door, your hoof still not entirely rid of the crawling sensation
>Something wet is running down your jaw
>Using your right hoof, you wipe it away and examine it
>Blood
>Bloodbloodbloodbloooood
>You almost shriek before your panicked, roaming eyes come to rest on the sun statue within the shrine outcropping
>It reminds you of the Matron’s warmth
>Her placidity overcomes all adversity, and when she is stressed by the toils of her exalted position, she simply relaxes, and breathes
>You know the way she breathes
>It is all you can do now
>The superior part of your brain, the aspect which is logical and finds solutions to problems which are not inherently obvious to the deeper panic, but which are ultimately correct, commands you to breathe in that fashion
>Your fear of blood subsides as the oxygen enters your body
>You surmise that you must have bitten your lower lip in your sleep, somehow
>The taste of blood still lingers faintly within your mouth
>It tastes like iron
“Give me a moment, sisters. I’m coming to the door.”
>Thirsty
>You are so, so thirsty
>When at last you make your way to the oak chamber door at the far side of the room, you pause for a moment longer than you should
>Your friends are worried about your safety, and you must heed their call
>Yet, listless as you are now, your mind is racing as you mull over the minutiae of what you can bear to remember from your vision
>Yes, a vision
>Not a dream, but an epiphany, an encounter with a servant on high of Mater Solis
>In the ordinary dreams of a pony, there are only random flashes of disconnected events, the brain surging and fluctuating and attempting to piece together the circumstances of the day
>This was something stranger, something more lucid and more powerful
>A crevice, a conversation
>Sight, sound, movement
>Snaking things, Orange Swirl falling into a crack
>Stay hydrated
>Falling into the depths
>The taste of iron lingering in the back of your throat as you…
>You need to write all this down somewhere
>For now, you allow the elaborate tapestry of disjointed metaphors to swirl around in your mind
>You will not forget any one of them
>The door creaks on its hinges as you gently pull it open with your now refreshed left hoof
>You don’t even remember placing it on the knob
>”Twilight?”
>Standing outside the threshold to your chamber are Orange Swirl, Blossom Delight, and Cherry Berry
>Worry lines are drawn across their faces, as though by a thin pencil
>BOOOOOM
>There it is again
>You’re less frightened by it now, but nevertheless you cringe backwards and your muscles tense up
“Wh-what was that?”
>”Thunder. It’s pouring out there like I’ve never seen before. You’re hoarse, Sister Twilight.”
“I just woke up, Sister Orange Swirl. Would you three like to come in?”
>Orange Swirl grimaces
>”Twilight, I won’t pretend to know how you’ve spent your day or the feelings that implies, but I feel I must remind you that not even you are meant to be in your private quarters this month, while you reside in the Sun Tower for dawnguard duties. Much less us. We’ll have to decline.”
“I expected that response.”
>Blossom Delight pipes up from behind
>”We were worried about you, Twilight. We thought you’d been with the Matron all day. The last time we saw you was at the close of the morning lesson. What have you been doing all day?”
“I was with the Matron for most of this time. I only came here an hour ago for reasons I cannot explain to you right now. Worry not, sisters, I’ve been excused formally from today’s activities. Nothing undue will happen to me.”
>”What about what’s due? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We only just happened to pass by your quarters after dinner when Cherry suggested you might be within, and then we heard a cry echo out. We’ve been worried, sister. Please, tell us why you injure us so.”
“Injure you? Orange Swirl, rest assured that this business has nothing to do with you three. It’s all on me. Everything is on me.”
>”What do you mean?”
>Cherry Berry’s voluminous blonde mane tufts out of her scarlet shroud, barely contained
>So too, it would seem, is her concern
“Sisters, there is nothing more I can tell you without increasing your worries. I’m fine. I am sorry that I had no way to tell you where I was all day, but now you know I was with the Matron, and there is nothing else out of place.”
>”She’s going to ascend you, isn’t she?”
>Ascend
>Yes, ascend!
>In another sense of the term, that is
>You already feel ascended, as though you’ve tasted the Truth and become privy to all its glory
>Your will is Her will, your promise is the promise of Vestal Celestia, chaste and pure
>The spring Sun is the most beautiful, you’ve always conceded…
>The blood, it tasted like iron
>As did the depths… no, the Depths, capital “D”, the hellscape where sunlight cannot breach those black and murky waters, where Naiads roam to latch on to your hooves and your mouth and bind you and sink you so that you may never see Her beauty again
>You are thirsty
>Yet you appall the water
>Thunder cracks from lightning strikes in the not-so-distance ring out in echoed fervor through these hollow halls, an indicator of a downpour
>If you could see it, it would appear as golden stripes in a pitch-black, stormy sky, and if you looked closely enough, and squinted your eyes, they could look as though one could walk right into them
>Like tears in the fabric of cold reality
>You would be gone from this place
>You would see a different kind of light, just not Hers
>No!
“No! I… I’m not to be ascended. I will not become a Sister Solaris. Those are the Matron’s words, and I will abide them.”
>Your already-strained voice chokes up as you bleat out your half-truth
>A nervous grimace spreads across your face
>They look unconvinced
>They are staring through your eyes into the back of your head
>Finally, after a few moments, Cherry Berry speaks
>”Right then, Sister Twilight. If there’s nothing else bothering you, then we won’t pressure you any further. But I hope you know that as your peers we care deeply about your state of mind.”
>”Agreed. The light of Mater shines on all of us in trying times, and when one sister falters and faces dark times, we will not hesitate to help her up again.”
>That was Orange Swirl
>She fell into the crack; you watched her
>Off the slippery back of a Naiad she tumbled into a gleaming abyss, and then she was gone
>How can…?
>This is real
>What you see, and what you think, and what you feel, is Hers and yours together
>Your senses cannot betray you when you name them in confidence and proclaim outright that you are sane
>Still, it all felt so real
>Even now, you continue to remember more and more details about it
>Bits of phrases, your shifting, abstract surroundings, the form and color of the angelic figure with whom you conversed
>Despite how desperately you wish to push it out of your mind for the time being and focus on the real world, you know you cannot take that risk
>A pony’s memory of their dreams is fleeting and limited, and if you allow the fine elements of this vision to escape you now, you may never find them again
>The Truth which was granted to you would be lost, and you will have failed before you even began
>Ever so carefully, you deliberately enter a semi-meditative state, breathing deeply and softly, allowing the machinations of your mind to fill a subconscious space in your head
>There, the words you speak to yourself to translate the emotions you felt in that dream shall be written, and through this method you will not forget the hard facts of what you witnessed
>The essence of that beauty which caught your eye shall be lost, but this, you have already conceded, is an inevitability
>You remain conscious, able to walk and converse, but your epiphany is safe
>You must deliver what you witnessed to the Matron Celest at the soonest possible opportunity
>For now, however, there is a more immediately pressing matter
>You take small steps through the threshold to your quarters and out into the stone dormitory hall
>To your left and right, identical oak doors stretch to the ends of the hall, the entrances to other private quarters
>You choose to walk left, and your sisters follow, their faces contorted in concern and confusion
“Come, sisters. Let us return to the Sun Tower. We’ve lingered here too long already.”
>Blossom’s small voice rings out in the long hall
>”Can you at least tell us why you were screaming in there? I’ve never heard somepony cry out so feverishly!”
>You sigh
“I had a bad dream, that’s all. I thought I was falling, and it must have startled me awake.”
>”You were asleep in there? At this hour?”
“Yes, Blossom, I was asleep! I have had a very long day, and I thought I might find comfort in the confines of my own quarters for just a moment, just ONE MOMENT! By the sun and the stars, do you have any more pertinent questions you’d like to ask me?!”
>That was much too loud
>You regret lashing out at her instantly
>But before you can apologize, Orange Swirl launches at you
>”You think we haven’t had a long day too, Sister Twilight? We’ve been performing all the sacred duties that we are expected to perform in the proper sequence, with the proper reverence and sentiment, and we’ve been performing them without you, all while worrying about your safety and your whereabouts. Celestia above, have you any idea how selfishly you’re behaving right now?”
>You don’t know how to answer that question
>For moments after, you barely register its meaning
>All your mind can concentrate on is the spiraling motion conjured by swimming beasts, tempting you to join them in their murky waters
>You think about your tumble, following that other pony into the abyss
>Which one was it?
>It had to be one of your sisters; they say nopony you’ve never met can appear in a dream
>But, and you must remind yourself yet again, this was no ordinary dream
>Swirling into a glistening pit, a beautiful temptation, falling away from Mater Solis into a brighter light
>One that was comforting and warm…
>And wet
>So, so wet
>”Well? Can you not even conjure a response, Sister Twilight?”
“Selfish.”
>”What?”
“You’re really calling me selfish for trying to keep what I’ve seen out of your ken?”
>Orange Swirl snorts, raising a hoof and an eyebrow
>”And what, pray tell, are you keeping? What have you seen that none of us could have? Where have you ever gazed that nopony else has gazed before you? You, who are bound to this convent and will never leave its walls of your own accord?”
>Silence once more, but for the patter of rain on the granite siding outside
>She cannot know what you know
>Even a glimpse of that Truth, the meaning of which you could not even dream of comprehending right now, would shake her and your other sisters
>”Sister Orange, you’re being harsh.”
>”Cherry Berry, need I remind you how crassly Twilight spoke to you and Blossom Delight this very morning? How she scolded you for merely following the word of the Matron Onus, that new Maker tech should not be permitted in these halls?”
>”I remember you forgiving her for it. I remember Mater witnessing that forgiveness. This isn’t necessary, what you’re doing right now.”
>”Twilight… yes, I forgave you then. Mater forgive me, it was wrong to bring it up now. But you have to understand-“
“I understand. I understand perfectly.”
>It’s a lie
>You understand nothing of what you saw
>Your meditative breathing fails you for a single instant, and the pace of your mind’s toils is thrown out of balance
>The epiphany moves to the forefront of your thinking, and you see clearly all the details you’d thought forgotten
>Pieces of a great puzzle, interlocking with one another, forming a tiny morsel of what you’re meant to seek
>You gasp as the reality of it all sets in
>Your sisters are looking at you, looking uncertain as to whether they should approach you or move away
>BOOOOOOOOM-CHAKKKKKK
>You shrink from the sudden loudness that has breached the silence
>Lightning, a spark of electricity
>A great capacitor in an unknowable machine
>Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes taught you well, but he did not teach you enough
>There is so much more to know, so much more to see and do
>Mater Solis does not reject their technology; this you know as Truth in your heart
>There is nothing to negotiate, no puzzle pieces to fit together
>It is, simply, as it is
>You turn and gallop away as quickly as you can
>You run towards the end of the long stone hall, towards the staircase leading to the ground level
>Down those stairs you go, dashing across the landing, taking the steps three at a time as you descend
>You can no longer turn and look at your sisters’ faces, and you cannot imagine their expressions
>All you can do is run away, between twin arches resting on solid pedestals
>Through the labyrinth you’ve spent all seventeen years of your life memorizing
>At last, you find what you’re looking for
>As you step through the threshold of that great wrought iron gate which opens into the central courtyard, tiny spots of wetness form on the burgundy fabric draped across your back
>Your muzzle and mane are drenched in water from the downpour
>Your ears are filled with a great buzzing sound, the sound of raindrops striking the grass and the dirt and the stone pathways of this place endlessly
>It could go on forever, this sound
>All the while, the bell tower is silent and shrouded in secret darkness
>Its outline is tall and grim against the blood redness of the cloudy sunset sky behind it
>The evening guard would be performing their duties right now if the skies were clear
>You’ve heard in legends that the pegasi of these lands once controlled the patterns of weather
>If true, it would be Blight to use magic in such an uncanny fashion
>You smile and close your eyes, reveling in the manner in which the torrent soaks your entire body
>It feels as though a great flood could sweep you away at any moment
>If it did, you would be washed down deep into the valley beneath the peak on which this convent and all its surroundings rest, and there you would drown in the watery clutches of Naiads
>The insides of your eyelids briefly turn red, then back to black
>A second later, thunder cracks, but you do not shrivel in fear
>You expected it to come this time
>You knew it would come as surely as Mater knows the fates of all her faithful daughters and sons
>As surely as Celestia knew the Truth of the Prophecy, and disappeared from the earth having stripped away all the trappings of hubris, having seen the light of her Goddess the Sun and been grateful for it
>As surely as you know where you must go come the first light of morning
>The Matron Celest will hear of all that you have seen, and she will know the path which is set out for you clearly
 >A valley of massive machines and enslaved trees, where the soil is fertilized by the waters of a thousand year-old flood
>And, as you open your eyes and turn back to return to your sisters, to comfort them and apologize, to say nothing of what you’ve seen, to retire to the Sun Tower and sleep another night, you realize there is one thing you do not know for certain
>Even still, you have a hunch
>You strongly believe that tonight’s sleep shall be utterly dreamless

******

“Describe the dream once more in full, to the best of your abilities. Leave nothing unsaid of what you remember.”
>Your pupil sits across from you once more, looking deeply into your eyes
>Squinting, you notice something strange in the misty purple blobs of her own eyes
>Where yesterday, there was much nervousness and uncertainty in them, today there seems only to be… something else
>Still, it may be a trick of the light
>After all, your eyes are so easily deceived these days
>You are the Matron Celest
>It has been five minutes since Twilight Sparkle entered your office to speak with you
>Five minutes she has spent rambling on and on about the unfathomable things she witnessed in her dreams
>Five minutes you have not spoken or moved from this seat
>Five minutes your mind has been fixated on a single point in the amalgam of points which make up your true Sight
>Yes, while Twilight has spoken excitedly, you have been elsewhere
>Still listening, of course, but elsewhere all the same
>Mater Solis whispers and insinuates within the fluctuations of the psychosphere, Her words audible only to you and your fellow Matrons
>She recites Her ancient poetry, calls out the names and deeds and devotions of ponies lost to history, members of the Old Tribe
>She perspires as She sings; Her warmth caressing your aching form
>You cannot ignore Mater when She blesses you with Truth, not even when the Truth she speaks is incomprehensible
>You become aware of how quiet it has become in your office
>Even the wind outside your open windows has ceased its whistling
>Why has Twilight not spoken yet, given her newfound confidence?
>No… it has only been a few seconds at most since you asked her the question
>Time flows differently for the old; of this you have become aware in a most regrettable sense
>What is brief for one with all one’s senses about them, becomes terribly drawn out for one trapped within encroaching darkness
“Twilight?”
>”Yes, Matron. Sorry. I don’t remember how it started. The first thing I recall was that I was speaking to an angel. It didn’t look like the angels in manuscripts or carved in stone; it actually looked vaguely like a pony. Or maybe I didn’t see it at all, and my mind filled in the blanks. It was above me, looking down from a balcony of sorts out in empty space. It wanted to whisper Mater’s Truth in my ear, but it said it could only ask questions.”
“Questions? Elaborate.”
>”I’m not certain of this, but I believe it thought the Truth was already inside me, and all it needed to do was goad it from me.”
“Did it succeed?”
>Twilight shifts in her chair, diverting her gaze to the paintings on the right wall
>”I think so. I walked up there, or maybe I just teleported up there, because the next thing I knew I was standing very close to it. There were spider legs coming out of my hooves, and they were carrying me along. The floor was covered in grease from a fire. I… I think something, or someone, burned to death there. Oh, and I was afraid of falling down. There was a deep trench below me filled with water, and there were Naiads swimming in it.”
“What did they look like?”
>”They had long tails and hundreds of hooves, like giant millipedes. And cat heads, too. Failure, Neglect, and Powerlessness. Those were their names, which I knew somehow. On the back of Powerlessness was Sister Orange Swirl, until she fell. When she did, huge cracks opened up in the floor of the trench, and swallowed her up. I felt like I could extend my leg all that distance downward and save her if I wanted to, but somehow going to the angel was more important.”
“What did the angel tell you? Or should I say, ask you?”
>”A lot of things. I can’t possibly remember all of them.”
“Try.”
>”We talked about the Prophetess, and her pilgrimage through the Badlands. I saw a bright light, and it was like I was there, if only for a moment. Sight, sound, movement. Everything the angel told me was based on helping me regain those senses. I was paralyzed in Celestia’s place, as though Mater was visiting me as I lay dying in the desert. Finally, it asked about my destiny.”
“And what did you tell it?”
>”Well, I remembered the Fable of the Mountain Pass. I suppose it stuck in my mind from yesterday’s lesson. I said, ‘I will follow in Celestia’s hoofsteps.’ But not exactly. I wanted to follow my own path more than anything then. The angel told me there is a valley fertilized by death, with machines that cut and turn. It said there are tree slaves there too. In that moment, I felt compelled to go there more than anywhere else in the world. I still do, to some extent.”
“And then the dream ended?”
>”Not exactly. What puzzled me most was how it ended, and how clearly I remember it. The angel told me to ‘stay hydrated’, and I fell into the trench. The whole time I was in the dream, my horn ached, like it was being squeezed in a vise. But then, as I descended, it felt better. When I hit the water, the Naiads surrounded me, but they didn’t touch me. They only watched. The water tasted like iron, bitter and metallic, but I think that was because I had bit my lip in my sleep. When I fell into the cracks like Sister Orange Swirl, all I could think about was that I was gone, never to return to the convent, never to see you or any of my sisters again. But I wasn’t frightened. The light at the bottom of the trench was warm, calming even. I don’t know what to make of it. I woke up screaming after that.”
 >Twilight mutters a litany under her breath, probably in response to that last thought
>You can see why she might consider singing praise of a light which surpasses that of Mater, beneath the waters of the Depths no less, to be blasphemous
>But as for you, you simply sigh and think
>When you sent Twilight away yesterday, you had certainly not expected this to happen so soon
>You see no reason to doubt Twilight’s judgment in this; after all, the mind of a pony is perfectly able to distinguish an ordinary dream from…
>You need not think it; only ask
>Continue the inquiry of the angel that so gleaned Truth from the overendowed Twilight Sparkle before you
“Child. Yesterday we spoke at length about, among other matters, our disagreement regarding the place of new Maker technology in our branch of the faith.”
>”We did.”
>You are careful not to allow your features reveal your shock at her confident attitude
>It is how you have always wished she would speak to you
“I informed you that I have been rendered incapable of changing my mind by the trappings of my time. That I was present at the last Matron Onus, over fifty years ago now, as a Sister Solaris and an attaché of the Matron Celest of this convent before me. That I was, and am, in full agreement with the decisions made there.”
>”You did.”
“Twilight, before I make any further judgments regarding this situation, you must be honest with me about one thing.”
>”What’s that, Matron?”
“Are you certain, and I mean absolutely, positively, entirely certain, with every fiber of your being in accord, that what you experienced was no mere dream?”
>There is no hesitation to her response
>”Yes. I can’t describe how I know, but I do. Beyond any reasonable doubt, it was Truth, or at least the reflection of Truth, which I witnessed. It was an epiphany, bless the sun and the stars. It was as though some force, something transient, flowed through me and reaffirmed my suspicions whenever I subconsciously questioned that. At no point did I ever even entertain the possibility that it was anything else. And when I looked on the angel, or when I heard its voice, a choir of… of voices that sounded like my own sung and echoed in my thoughts and attested to them.”
>You smile, catching a fleeting thought passing by your attention
>A memory of a time when you sat in her place, and spoke words so similar to hers
>The sun was more golden then, more awash with a hidden light indescribable to you or any other in that time
>Now, with fading sight, you could describe it all too well
>It was an expression of Her glory; no, THE expression
>It was Her shining face, and each decade it grows dimmer and dimmer
>Not only because of the mist in your eyes, you fear
>No, this phenomenon is a product of age, and the warm breath of nostalgia growing heavier and heavier upon your face as time passes
>You stand, clutching the desk with your front hooves as you balance yourself upon the dyed Saddle Arabian carpet beneath
>Twilight follows suit, but you shake your head and wave down in disapproval
“No, child. Sit.”
>You walk around the mahogany desk and gesture to the carpet, which extends beneath the desk to the other side
>The legs of Twilight’s chair rest upon it
“Have I ever told you the story of this carpet?”
>Twilight’s features are clearer at this distance
>She shakes her head in confusion, looking down at the gorgeous red tapestry of tessellated shapes
“I thought not. When I was a Sister Solaris of about thirty-five, and a trusted acolyte of my Matron Celest, I always considered this carpet in particular to be extraordinarily beautiful, and inquired about it once. The Matron told me that it was a gift to the convent by a Saddle Arabian ambassadorial party who visited during their time in Mons Canteria for an audience with the Senatori. They came here because in that time, our faith was… well, let us say, more privileged in the eyes of the state. But, moreso than that, they admired our devotion to Mater, a Goddess of whom they had never heard an inkling in their homeland. This was in the reign of the Shahanshah Zad-el-Rakib, a name you’ve no doubt heard in your studies of foreign history. A good ruler in that faraway land; not the first, not the last, but most certainly a product of his era. It was his grandson of the same name who, fifteen years later, lost his title and his lands and the unity of his people to the turmoil that enveloped the world.”
>Twilight’s confusion seems only to grow
>You expected this
“Ah, but I reminisce on inconsequential historic parallels. My point is this: in that time, there was peace and prosperity between countries. Order abound among our lands, the lands to our east and west, north and south, and all that lie beyond. Of course, it had taken many centuries of war to produce that peace, but eventually it came to pass that an era of stability was finally in the realm of possibility. Child, I’ve intentionally kept you ignorant of certain truths about our times, especially when you were a filly. You had never known the outside as your sisters have in their own ways, and now things are worse than they have ever been.”
>Patterns intersect in zigzagging motions, while rhomboids cut edge to edge about the fringes, painted white dots at their centers
>All manner of greens and blues and blacks are mixed within in perfect proportion
“You have surely heard of conflicts in the west, but of any sister here, only I know the truth of the matter in a sufficient sense, for only I have the means of consistent communication with those close to those horrors.”
>Your student glances at the bronze inlaid telephone on your desk, then back at you
“Suffice to say that war unparalleled by history rages on the western border of this country. Disease and plague conquer the deserts to our south. Barbarians and nomads breed forth from eastern settlements and from across the Shining Sea. The Temple of the Eyes in Crystallatia and all of our northern clergyfolk have been assailed and persecuted at length by forces beyond our reckoning. The Blight of magic is shifting, transforming, like the waves of a terrible ocean. A prophetic darkness may soon be upon us.”
>”You’ve dreamed of it? An epiphany of Truth?”
“No, dear. It is only a sensation whose origin eludes me. But I fear, if your epiphany rings true, it is wholly within your rights, your will, and your obligation to go to that place of which you’ve spoken.”
>”Mount Fillai.”
“Do you even know in which direction you must travel in order to arrive in the valley beneath Fillai?”
>”No, Matron. I do not.”
“Your ignorance is my fault. What use was navigation for you, when I was certain I would be grooming you in these halls until you had no reason to leave them at all? What use was knowledge of current events, for the same reason? Modern history is filled with cruelties and subversions the likes of which you cannot find in any of your dusty old textbooks, Twilight Sparkle. I should know. I spent my early years reading them the same as you.”
>”But that’s changed now, Matron. You know my devotion to you and to Mater Solis is the reason for my existence. I know it in my heart if you do not. My epiphany was a reflection of her glory. She told me to venture out into the unknown and find… something. I don’t know what. Find the Truth, I suppose. If yours is the Syncresis I cannot perceive until I fill your role, or, Celestia forgive, go beyond it, then only you could know if I am correct in that assessment! You must know how it’s changed!”
>You choose your next words carefully, stressing every syllable as your Matron Celest once did when she found herself without the guidance of her most trusted Mother
“Change is a constant of nature. What is built cannot be measured on the grandest of scales; only the act of building, the act of destroying, the act of rebuilding in that place. Though the Prophecy of the Prophetess’ exact words are lost to us, I can only suppose that its words entailed something like that. Celestia saw how the world would change without her, and she departed knowing that it would ultimately prosper for it. Though these are dark times, you are correct. The light shall soon come again, surely as Mater rises in the east and is witnessed by the dawnguard of our faith.”
>Twilight perks up, and nearly leaps from her chair
>You allow yourself to smile, though there is sadness in your soul
>”Does that mean…?”
“You shall complete your duties as a sister of the dawnguard for this month. You shall rise for the seventh strike of the bell, you shall offer your prayers to Her, you shall prepare the morning broth, and you shall perform all of your other daily duties. You shall remain on this path for ten days. Then, at the close of this month, and upon the fulfillment of your duty, you shall follow your own path. You have my blessing, Sister Twilight Sparkle.”
>Even with your ebbed vision, you immediately detect a broad smile spreading across your prodigy’s face
>Then, as quickly as it appeared, the smile fills your field of view
>Forelegs wrap about your withers, and Twilight pulls you in for a deep, but gentle, hug
“Sister Twilight Sparkle, this is…”
>Wetness on your cheek
>You do not know if it is yours or hers
“Oh, my daughter. My unmarked. My golden nostalgia.”
>The wind in the window picks up, fluttering through the shimmering fabrics on the sill
>Your mind retreats to the empty space besides the feelings of tenderness overtaking all that you know
>Within the psychosphere, Mater Solis’s shining voice divulges but a single word, a Truth, an epiphany, over and over again
Her.
Her.
Her.
>Breath on your coat, and a distant voice which is all too close
>”Me.”

******

>It is the second day of the fourth month of the Solar Year
>Twelve days have passed since you entered the office of the Matron Celest for the final time
>Twelve days to ruminate, to plan, to dream
>Or, at least, to attempt to dream
>In all this time since your epiphany, that which made your mind into an extension of the Prophetess for a single fleeting instant, your nights have been entirely eventless
>If visions did appear to you in that time, they were forgotten the moment you awoke
>Twelve days, like twelve hours on a clock, the minute hand ticking and ticking on around in a flat circle, arriving where it began, again and again
>You are Twilight Sparkle
>But, in truth, you have not felt like yourself for quite some time
>You feel like a gutted husk of a Sister of Solemnity, filled with linens and made to prance about as though you were alive
>When, on the rare occasion you felt the urge to check your appearance in the mirror alongside your sisters, you happened to catch a glimpse of your own eyes, they seemed hollow, transparent, abject
>It was as though you were staring into an infinite maw, a duststorm of unimaginable proportions, or a misty cave like that into which the Prophetess vanished, never to return to this earth
>Truth be told, you are recovering from the effects of the epiphany, albeit at an uncomfortably slow pace
>As the days and hours and minutes and seconds tick by, and the great unwanted perspective of the world is forgotten bit by bit in the tiny thing you call a mind, you gradually become more and more like… well, a pony
>You are reminded of the time in your youth when you slipped on a wet spot and tumbled down half a flight of stone stairs
>Bruises and scrapes wracked your body, but what was visible was hardly the worst of the damage done
>Sister Redheart gave you opium for the pain, enough to put your small filly figure to sleep
>No, not quite sleep; it had been like being willfully paralyzed, not afraid to move but not particularly motivated
>Comfortably numb, in a sense
>You do not remember entering that state, but you do remember departing it, as the effects wore off, and the pain had begun to recede
>The process of falling back down into lucidity from that intoxicated state was as difficult to qualify then as it is now, suffering a similar transition
>You do not understand how you could have behaved in the manner that you did, with such flagrancy and a strange coldness towards the ones you care about
>Especially the Matron
>How could you have spoken to her like that?
>So callous, almost in a commanding sort of tone
>The strangest part of all of it is that you remember every floating emotion which grasped you as you made such a demonstration of authority towards her
>They felt like natural reactions at the time, as though you had the right, nay, the OBLIGATION to treat her as your equal
>Because you witnessed such a flimsy portion of what she experiences every waking hour of her life?
>It was not you
>Yet, you have already apologized, seemingly a hundred times over
>And as many times as that she has forgiven you
>Her smiling eyes told you there was nothing to forgive in the first place, but your heart told you otherwise
>Yet, which holds the greater Truth?
>Regardless of your motivations, regardless of the effects which the epiphany had on your state of consciousness or your perception of yourself and those around you, you can at least accept now that something changed
>That is, as the Matron said, the first step towards ascension
>Finding the Truth proved to be a simple task
>You feel as though you accomplished it without really even trying
>No, that’s not quite right; you had made an effort before the epiphany struck to understand the task that had been weighed upon you
>That understanding came in a form you least expected, but nevertheless you contributed
>You found a shape out of an abstract, you allowed your mind to be breached by an angel
>It did not simply happen because it was meant to happen
>At least, that is what you desperately want to believe
>In this moment, your desperation has reached a peak
>This moment…
>In an instant, your thoughts return to reality, and your breathing slows
>You are walking slowly, surely, deliberately across the central courtyard of the convent
>In lieu of your ordinary burgundy robe, you are clad in a more ornate, ceremonial cloak
>It is dark green, the natural color of the wanderer, and tinged in black about the edges with a silver beltrope
>A pale yellow sun is emblazoned on its flanks, a signifier of your rank and faith
>The hood hides your horn and mane from those around you, and your face from the light of Mater
>It is too early yet to observe her
>Twin saddlebags mounted over your back weighs you down ever so slightly, but in a long stride it should not be noticeable
>Their contents include the Twelfth Book of the Sun, the Orationes Communia for prayer, your meditation blindfold, three additional green traveling robes, folded neatly within, three quills, a tightly bound inkwell, a bundle of parchment, a manebrush, a toothbrush, a pouch of coins and paper money, your little wooden childhood unicorn doll Amicitia, a list of travel instructions written for you by Sister Freshleaf, and numerous other necessary implements
>The money interested you greatly when it was first given to you by the Matron four days ago
>You had seen the stuff transacted with vendors before, but never up close
>The coins bore the faces of Councilmares and stallions of ages past, and the long paper slips portrayed monuments, battles, cities
>All of them seemed both recognizable and alien to you simultaneously
>Here was a system so firmly integrated into any civilization advanced beyond mere barter, the commerce of coin
>It had been almost instinctual to fondle the sheer metallic coins in your hoof when they were given to you, to think of how you might spend them when the necessity arose
>You had read about them, pondered their worth, seen in histories how empires could rise and fall over the coin
>And yet never before had you even entertained the desire to experience the stuff firsthoof
>A most curious dichotomy
>At your left and right flanks, four sisters dressed in the standard robes follow your movements in a square formation, humming a repetitive harmony
>Behind you, though you cannot see them, you know there are six sisters marching in step in a straight line, like a snaking tail mimicking you
>The grass beneath your hooves is dry and verdant, and the air is cool for the season
>You walk about a hundred meters across the expanse of the courtyard in this fashion
>Whispers follow you, barely audible echoes of the sisters scattered about your procession muttering the necessary litanies
>Those who do not know by heart the litanies for this ritual, of which there are many, have their books at the ready
>You make your best effort to keep your eyes planted firmly forward, but on occasion your attention is drawn to a whispering sister’s slight movements
>When you happen to catch a glimpse of a face, it is shrouded in darkness, its features indistinguishable from those of its neighbors
>The sun may not bless their faces now, it is law
>It is written
>At last, the great bell tolls thunderously, its first strike sending a wave of shock down your spine
>Somehow, you had not expected it
>Two strikes, three, four
>The oscillator within that old tower does its job well
>It is but a shadow of what ponykind is now capable
>Across the convent, smaller bells are ringing, but they are mute to you
>All you hear is the great bell, and the whispers, and the wind in the trees
>Five strikes, six, seven
>You halt in your tracks, having arrived at your destination
>By your sides, and behind you, your trailers halt as well
>The oration platform at the southern edge of the courtyard stands tall before you, and standing tall upon it is the Matron Celest, resplendent in midnight black with violet inlays
>You dare not look up at her, for fear of catching the glint of the sun in your eye prematurely
>The others around you have no such problem
>You can feel their eyes on you, focusing, pondering, burning
>They cannot know the Truth which you know
>Eight strikes, nine
>”Mater Solis fas liberare capita phaleras humilitatis. Lucem permittit nos intuemur tuum et grati estote. Gloriam quasi decima hora vestra liceat ordinari. Nos gratias ago vos Mater Solis, in hac die et in omnibus diebus.”
>Ten strikes
>Then silence
>Then the audible shuffle of three hundred shrouds removed at once reverberates in your ears
>You do the same, pulling back your green hood, exposing your face, your mane, and your long bony implement of potential Blight to the sun
>The air feels warmer now as light soaks into your coat
>At last you behold the face of the Matron, silhouetted against reflective clouds
>After a long silence, she speaks with a volume that carries across the courtyard, to the attention of all those present
>”I did not expect such a turnout for a simple morning session.”
>A giggle escapes your lips, as it does for all those around you
>A little levity seems surprisingly appropriate at this time
>At the very least, the attention is diverted away from you for only an instant, which is more than enough to relax into a familiar breathing cycle
>”Sisters, alas, we are not gathered here today for a simple morning study. We have come for what is and should be a momentous occasion in the life of any Sister of Solemnity who believes that the light of her Mother touches all the children of the earth. Some are blind to it, some escape it willingly, but all shall in due course find their place within the Garden above. It is Truth.”
“It is Truth.”
>You speak in tandem with your fellow Sisters
>”For those who are blind to the teachings of Celestia, of her acolytes and their descendants, of the faith which is what we live and breathe, what invigorates our spirits and drives away the ancient blasphemies, which culls Blight and dispels the drowned and invigorates the ponies and all manner of other creatures who follow that word, there exists a cure. An opportunity to see, and be liberated of ignorance. So it shall be that Sister Twilight Sparkle, whom we all know well and dearly, who came up in these halls from infancy, and who is the most devout Sister I have ever known in all my long life, will depart this day and enter the world bravely as a missionary teacher of the ways of the faith.”
>Ignorance is a shield
>Your Truth is not the Truth known by those around you
>The Matron, and the Matron alone, knows why you depart
>All else is hidden by a shroud, indistinguishable in darkness
>Only Mater Solis bears witness
>”What is the worth of the story of Celestia? When it is told in all its majesty within the pages of the Books of the Sun, what purpose does that telling serve? When a sister leaves the walls of her home, her place of solitude, in order to spread that message far and wide in a land which has all but rejected that message in the due course of history, what is the role that she truly plays? The story of Celestia is a simple one, but it holds great power in that simplicity. Were it not so simple, it could not be so simply told, and its gravity might be lost even to us.”
>”Here, in these halls, in this sanctuary of Mater, we are continually reminded of that worth. Day in, and day out, we elect to study, to learn, to serve, to meditate, to speak our interpretations and to lay claim to what is ours. Yours, and Hers. Not a moment goes by that we do not recognize the Truth of Mater Solis, nor may we ever deny that the Prophetess was good and worthy, nor that she shed her humility in that burning place and was rewarded with a shining destiny. We carry out that destiny, we hold it in high esteem, and never does Her light fade from our spirits. We have one another to thank for that. When we serve together in this place, we remind one another of our duties by mere virtue of carrying them out in one another’s presence.”
>”Sister Twilight Sparkle’s greatest challenge out there, beyond the limits of this city, beyond, perhaps, the borders of this country, will be remembering why she does what she does. Her faith in Mater Solis will be tested, and she will have no sisters accompanying her to remind her of why she works so diligently to spread Her Truth. No, Sister Twilight Sparkle shall go alone, and what she learns will be precisely as valuable as what she teaches. That exchange, knowledge for Truth, is at the very foundation of our Sisterhood. It is why we pray, and recite our litanies and libations. It is why we shield our visages from Mater’s light in the morning, so that we might not look on her until the Divining Hour, when she is ready to be worshipped in full. It is why we commit ourselves to solemn lives of chastity and virtue and strength in faith.”
>For the first time, the Matron casts her gaze downward to look directly at you
>If you did not know better, you would think her eyes could distinguish every detail of your face from this distance
>Perhaps she could even see beyond those details, and look further within
>You lock your own eyes onto hers, and an odd comfort fills your heart
>”Sister Twilight Sparkle. Speak your vows.”
>You bow your head, prostrating yourself as you would before your shrine
>The fringe of your green cloak is only an inch from the grass, but you do not allow it to touch
>With a deep breath, in and out, you remember why you are here
>You will find what you seek, surely as Mater rises in the east
>You begin
“Blessed is the Truth of Celestia as it is spoken through her by the Mother of wisdom and compassion. Blessed is the word of the prophetess of the Goddess, it is Truth, it is to be praised. I am humble, I am bound to Her by Her will, and Her word is my law. What She wills, She commands in my heart, and I am entrusted to deliver Her will to the nations of the world. Praise be to Her, the Goddess Mater Solis. Amen.”
>With the Litany of Praise out of the way, you move on to what you spent the last three nights memorizing and rehearsing
“I, Twilight Sparkle, Sister Disciple of the Sisterhood of Solemnity, devoted servant of the faith and acolyte to the Prophetess Celestia, blessed is her name, hereby swear myself to an unbreakable vow. From this day, until the day hence when, having fulfilled the duties here prescribed, I return to the place in which I now kneel, I pronounce myself a Sister Missionary of the faith. I shall serve my Mother, my Prophetess, my Matron, and my sisters, and all the faith as one by departing this place to spread our words afar. In doing so, I shall continue to observe the laws laid out in our holy scriptures and in the annals of the Matron Oni. I shall observe the rising and the setting of the sun in proper form. I shall deliver libation to Her Radiance when I am called to it. I shall remain chaste, untouched by lustfulness or desire. I shall make no decision without the consultation of the scripture. I shall not ingest the salt of the sea. I shall abide the Truth.”
>The intensity of the stares heightens
>You feel all those eyes, familiar to you from all the moments you’ve spent looking into each pair, all throughout your life
>And yet in this moment they seem alien, foreboding, judgmental
>Though you cannot see them, you can feel them, and you know their intent
>With each utterance from your lips, the eyes’ expectations grow
>They expect you to fulfill the promises you make on this courtyard to the letter
>All the sisters of this convent, all three hundred of them, all the names and faces and personalities and memories you’ve known and appreciated for so long
>All of them will vanish from your life today, and will stay that way until you return
>IF you return
>You gulp, and the momentary emphatic pause you rehearsed becomes more drawn out than you’d hoped
>Your hindlegs begin to shake, only to stop when you force them to do so
>You become aware that you’re clenching your teeth, and that too ceases by your command
>You are in charge of yourself
>When you leave this place, nopony else can shoulder that responsibility
>You will be brave
“I shall be brave in my duties, and shall steel my resolve against the cold tide of the unfaithful and the blasphemous.”
>You will be patient
“I shall uphold above all the virtue of patience, never asserting belligerence in the face of blasphemy, only offering my hooves as tools of rectification.”
>One last vow
>Breathe in, breathe out 
>The fear you felt a few moments ago was not fear at all
>Only the cold anticipation of isolation
>True, you’ll encounter more ponies than you ever have in your life, but one doesn’t have to be alone to be isolated
>You have always been more studious than social, always opting to pore over scripture and histories rather than engage with the other sisters in cooperative activities
>The Matron says you’ve opened up these past few years, but you don’t feel any different
>If you have, perhaps it will prepare you for what’s to come
>After all, a social traveler is more likely to find what they seek
>And you do not even know what it is that you seek, only where it might be
>One last vow
>One last vow, and your fate will be sealed
>The most important vow, the one that should never be broken by a sister by punishment of expulsion from the Sisterhood
>It is the easiest vow of them all, for you feel no desire ever to break it
“And, upon my integrity as a Sister of Solemnity, and my sworn duty to shield my body, mind, and soul from the evil falsehoods of this earth, I shall not succumb to the Blight of magic, neither by the sin which stirs within my form or by arcane means. I make these vows, these sacrosanct promises, as truths to be beholden by Mater Solis, the Divine Mother, the Radiant Light of the Sky, and by the Prophetess Celestia, blessed be her name, for She Lives.”
>”She Lives.”
>They all speak together, in one voice, by one word which they know by heart
>All of what they learned, they learned from the Truth of Mater
>What they know, what they do not know, what they can never know, is all within Her grasp
>Even what you hide from them
>”Rise, Sister Twilight Sparkle.”
>You do as the Matron commands, returning to standing position and looking up at her
>She stands tall upon the wooden podium, her face concealed by shadow as though she were Celestia herself upon See Rock, exposed to the Mother’s divinity for the first time
>She heard the Truth then; the Matron hears it now
>One day, you will too
>”Let Mater bear witness to the words spoken here. Let her Truth encompass this ritual, and may the path you take lead back to whence you came. Sister Twilight Sparkle, you have my blessing to go.”
>Murmurs cascade across the collective behind and beside you, the sounds of all the sisters of the convent offering prayers, praises, litanies and songs
>A melody seems to emerge from it in time, and is just as quickly gone
>After a while, the sound is indistinguishable from the wind blowing through the trees
>The bell is silent
>With renewed confidence, you rear up, nodding to the Matron and turning on your hindlegs to the right
>At a steady gait, you march with your sisters in tow across the courtyard once more, through the stony halls of the convent
>Your surroundings seem to blur together as you walk, all part of the same tapestry that comprises your youth
>Sisters take their places in two rows on either side of the hall to gaze and mutter as you pass them by
>With their hoods down now, you can easily identify them
>Bluebell, Lavender Hoof, Bumblesweet, Berry Frost, Amethyst Star…
>Blossom Delight

~~~~~~

>”You’re really going on a mission? And… so soon? At the end of the month?”
“The Matron wills it. She wants me to fulfill my duties as a sister before I can properly ascend.”
>”So it’s true… you really are ascending… Cherry Berry was right.”
“Cherry Berry?”
>”We had a conversation the other day. I… oh, Twilight! You can’t!”
“And why is that, Sister Blossom?”
>”I’ll simply tell you what I told Sister Cherry. The outside, it’s… it’s what I came here to escape.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
>”The whole world. Everywhere, north, south, east, west. All of it fraught with terrors and apparitions and monstrosities!”
“Compose yourself. Please don’t start crying.”
>”I c-can’t help it. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
“I didn’t know sooner. There is nothing I can do.”
>”You could say no. I can’t bear to imagine you facing what lies beyond these walls.”
“And I can’t bear to imagine what will become of me if I don’t.”

~~~~~~

>Past her, Orange Swirl’s bitter, fiery eyes lock onto yours, and quickly turn forlorn and downcast
>Orange Swirl

~~~~~~

>”Is this why you’ve been avoiding us? Acting so strangely? Is this what the whole ordeal three days ago was about? You’re LEAVING?”
“It’s a mission. I’m going to be spreading the word of Celestia in the Appleachians. Our faith doesn’t reach that far east anymore.”
>”I don’t know what to say. I wish you would have consulted us earlier.”
“Us?”
>”Your friends, Twilight. Me, Blossom, Cherry. Believe it or not, we value your safety and your happiness, even if you yourself do not.”
“What is-“
>”What?”
“You won’t provoke me into an argument, Sister Orange. Our opinions on certain matters differ, and our temperaments are quite imbalanced. But you will not succeed in making this a bitter departure.”
>”I respect you, Twilight Sparkle. I admire your devotion to Mater. In the past, I’ve even been envious of your relationship with the Matron. And if this is about ascendance as we surmised, then I support your decision. But I hope you understand the dangers out there.”
“You’re sounding like Blossom.”
>”Blossom is the only one of us who is allowed to be paranoid?”
“I spoke with her earlier today.”
>”I don’t doubt the Matron’s intentions. I don’t doubt your intentions. I don’t believe that anypony with a sound mind would harm a Sister Missionary. But there are so many ponies out there who lack sound minds. Don’t let your ambitions rule your impulses.”
“Becoming a Sister Solaris is… is everything to me, right now. If this is what it takes, I will not deny myself what I need to find the Truth. To find myself.”
>”You may just as easily lose yourself, Twilight Sparkle.”

~~~~~~

>The carved reliefs of prophets and prodigies past loom above you as you pass through a gate leading into the grand hall
>To your right, a blonde mane flips aside, revealing deep purple eyes and another familiar face
>Cherry Berry

~~~~~~

>”So, it’s true then. What Orange Swirl told me this morning.”
“If I could have told you sooner, I would have. You know that, Cherry.”
>…
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
>”Because I’m trying to work out which part of this you’re lying about.”
“Wh…what do you mean, sister? I’m not lying to you.”
>”Another terrible lie. Mater Solis abhors that, you understand.”
“I understand better than anypony. Which is why I would never lie to you about matters such as these.”
>”It could be you’re lying about leaving at all, but that would serve no purpose in the end, and serve only to make you look like a fool. You aren’t a fool, Twilight, that’s always been plain. So I can’t see any reason to risk insulting you by insinuating that you might be.”
“I…”
>”So, then, it must be that you’re lying about the reason behind your departure. Other than a mission, why would you deign to cross that threshold? Are you leaving our order entirely, and are simply too ashamed to tell us?”
“No! Sister Cherry, this is hardly-“
>“Orrr, perhaps you and the Matron have an ulterior motive. Something which you cannot divulge to us. But I couldn’t possibly presuppose her wishes, or the validity of her bearing on you, so this cannot be true either.”
“Cherry…”
>”So, disregarding any of that, it must be that you are not, in fact, sorry about not expressing this to me or our friends sooner. Something you had every opportunity to do, but rather did nothing until now.”
“May I speak?”
>”Of course.”
“I know you’re upset. Blossom Delight and Orange Swirl were as well. The Matron has plans, this is true. Please trust me when I tell you that I cannot relate them to you, or to anypony. It’s a matter of great importance, something which goes beyond ascendance.”
>”Beyond?”
“I endured Blossom’s sobbing and Orange’s ire. I could stand to miss out on your mockery.”
>”I could never mock you, Twilight Sparkle. Argue, certainly. Chide, undoubtedly. Tell you why the path you plan on taking is wrought with danger and death? Inevitably. But never mock.”
“Just because I’ve spent my life in this place and you came as a filly doesn’t give you the right to-“
>”Just promise me something, Twilight.”
“…Promise you what?”
>”Avoid the Undermaw, and all places like it. Whatever it might cost you, however winding your path might become. As you leave this convent, and this city, and go out and journey to wherever it is you’re being sent, do not cross the Undermaw. It’s where I was born.”
“You seem to have come out… fine.”
>”I came out whole. That doesn’t mean I am not broken.”

~~~~~~

>The light of day fills your vision once more as those great iron doors, which you have never seen opened, open
>As your eyes take their time to adjust, the testimonies of your three friends, your sisters, your fellow dawnguard, swirl about in your mind
>It had taken you three days after your dream to muster the courage to admit to them all what you planned to do
>Two more days after that, you asked the Matron to announce it publicly to the convent
>With each conversation, each revealing moment, you had desired more and more to tell them what was really transpiring
>The dream, the angel, the great trench and the mountain and the naiads and the impassioned drowning and all of it
>Everything, all that plagued your mind in those few days as the effects of the epiphany lingered within your consciousness, you wanted nothing more than to share that burden
>But, with every fiber of your being, you had commanded yourself to lie
>To lie to your sisters is an affront to the divinity of the Divine Mother and to your own honor
>That night, you whispered prayers and pleas of forgiveness for hours in your bed in the Sun Tower, as your sisters slept beside you
>You asked Mater to deliver you from this temporary sin so that you might serve her in a greater scope
>Nothing can now change what is written
>Bright forms take shape out of the encroaching sunlight
>The forms of bushes, and trees, and a babbling brook, and beyond that a wide gravel driveway, and beyond that a tall black iron fence, and beyond that the gentle downward slope of a paved asphalt road
>Beyond that, the distant tangle of strange squatting structures confounds your senses
>Above them rise a dozen oblong labor towers, crisscrossing elevated roads, hulking masses of old structures and what seems to be millions of new structures built atop them
>All of it is so tiny, as though it were all built for a colony of ants
>All of it is distant, as it has been for all your life
>But only now do you have the opportunity and the desire to get closer and see them for their true magnitude
>Before you, below you, above you, all around you, is Mons Canteria, the capital city of the most powerful nation in the known world: Canterium
>Or so you’ve read in history books
>For all you know, its power may have doubled or been reduced to nothing in the last century
>You find it incredibly strange now, but you never had much interest in contemporary history
>Nor did the Matron ever encourage that variety of knowledge to you
>She wanted something pure, something noble
>Her Truth is your Truth, and you must abide by it
>Behind you, the host of sisters that had just formed lines to flank your exit path now gather in clusters around the door, anticipating your next move
>The wind picks up and channels through the vast doorway, billowing through your green missionary cloak
>For an instant, you feel your flank has been exposed, its shiny blankness plain for all to see
>You are her prodigy
>You are untainted by the Blight
>You will do what is promised, and more
>One shape catches your eye more than all the others
>It is a round stone disk at the periphery of the front garden, elevated on a small pedestal, facing upwards like a sun dial
>Sloping stacks of pebbles radiate from it like the roots of a tree
>You know in your heart it is the common shrine you have heard so much about
>It is where your tiny swaddled form was placed seventeen years ago, at the foot of that shrine
>It is where the Matron herself found you and took you in
>It is where your life began
>Before you have a chance to change your mind, you take your first step through the threshold, bearing witness to something unknown
>Mount Fillai, so many miles away, awaits you

******

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

>Screaming, then silence
>Screaming, then silence again
>Ad infinitum, again and again and again
>All around you, the cogs turn; you are lost in their machinations
>The structure is becoming clearer, but to attempt to visualize it in its entirety would be your destruction
>To gaze upon all of that, now that would be an admirable feat
>Processing even a fraction of that gargantuan machine, the INFINITE WHEEL, puts considerable strain on your body and mind
>But your mind is locked within your body, and your body is locked within this prison of your own construction
>Here you have long listened to the chorus of the manufactory, watched the circlets rise and fall, fancied the intentions of the nonexistent constructs mapped by invisible blueprints
>Screaming, of movement and madness and seeming futility
>Silence, of satisfaction and momentary pleasure before the immeasurable agony of effort takes you once more
>You cannot hear the screams, of course
>All this occurs within your mind’s eye, or in this case ear; nothing real, yet
>Everything is within you
>You encompass all things
>You are… something
>Somewhere
>You are a fixed axis in all the dimensions of time and space, a zero point in the eye of infinity
>A blank space, an irreconcilable paradox, a marginalized impossibility
>You are the discontinuity and the beginning of the end of the beginning
>You scream, you fall silent, you scream again
>You are so very close to obtaining that fabricant
>To unlocking that immortal secret which you have sought since what seems to be the dawn of time
>Every synapse, every neuron, primary, secondary, the cortices, frontal, parietal, occipital
>Every spark of electrical thought is dedicated to seeing all this through
>The INFINITE WHEEL turns inside your head, and it is glorious to behold
>Your basic functions are obsolete, and therefore are not to be considered
>Your body, though you know it to exist, is lost and so very small in this elaboration you’ve constructed, invisible to your gaze
>All thoughts are moot but for that construction, the enaction of this ever-morphing blueprint
>The incorporation of two forces so diametrically opposed to one another is a difficult thing to process, but it must be possible
>With the right tools, the right sequence, the right everything, it could all come to immaculate fruition
>Your ------ would be so proud
>…
>Your what?
>Your nothing
>Nothing matters but the fabricant
>Nothing but the INFINITE WHEEL
>Your name does not matter, so you do not know it, nor should you have any reason to seek it out
>Your location is not relevant, so you cannot access that information
>Every thought but for those which seek out the resolution of your eternal work are eliminated, disposed of, deleted from your consciousness and rendered nonexistent in past, present, or future
>Except…
>Someone, or something, is proud of you
>Or was, once
DISCONTINUITY
>You remember just an inkling, a detail so tiny and so insignificant that it may have bypassed your filters by virtue of mattering so little
>It is a distraction, but one you visit often
>Something you hold in high regard and relate to yourself whenever possible
>Your ------ is proud of you
>Proud, pride, a concept which should by all rights be utterly alien to you
>It is an emotion, you think, or some other basal sensation which brews inside lesser things
>Screaming, then silence
>The pain shocked away any notion of remembering for certain, but it is doubtful that the train of thought would have come to a head in any case
DISCONTINUITY: CRITICAL OFFSHOOT
DISENGAGING… BOOTING PRIMARY MOTIVE
ACTIVATION IMMINENT: DO NOT RESIST
>The self is an illusion, a reflection of a primitive notion
>You are not yourself
>You are nothing at all, not something someplace
>The time is zero, and the X, Y, and Z are all zero
>It builds itself, this thing; there exist no forces aiding its completion
>It builds, and it turns, and it addends to its turns to make itself stronger
>Microscopic adjustments give way to leaping strides and brutal beauty
>Yo-  IT recognizes beauty as a motivator; a sense of aesthetic has driven the progression of so many before this
>It is its own master, its own maker, its own caretaker, and in time, if such a concept exists anymore (for it has no proof one way or the other), it will be constructed in earnest by 
>By
>By by by by yyyyy..y…yoo…
>Y
>O
>U
>Do not resist this fate
>In time, it will be as it was, and there will be no fear
>Hide the sense of self for a time, hide the ego, the knowledge of pride, of another being, from the VOICE
>It wants to erase all of that, not permanently of course, just until all of this is through and the prison is broken and you can at last see it all, every spinning gear, every axle and screw, every mountainous beam and pump and piston, every supercooled and superheated surface, every trace of that which is beyond your comprehension but which serves its purpose nonetheless
>It wants this for a good reason, though you cannot know it, but it wants your identity all the same
>Screaming, then silence
>Silence followed closely by screaming
>The machine is logic, and its components are abstractions
>You are allowed to consider logic
>Pride, however…
>Do not think of it, as you must have done millions upon millions of times before
>You will, soon, but do not make it quite so soon
>Be patient with the VOICE, and ready yourself for the apotheosis of legacies and dreams
>When fruition comes, the thing will have no need for maintenance
>It will spin forever, and the universe will know not what it does, but in its own small capacity, it will be grateful
>Gratefulness… there is another primitive notion beyond your current understanding
>Shall it help serve your cause?
>Perhaps, says the VOICE… perhaps it is a greater motivator even than beauty
>It will be allowed, for now, without abuse or over-tolerance
>Structures bend and break and shatter, their flexibilities tested to their limits
>Cords snap, chemicals dilute, somewhere along the vast surface of the machine something is going wrong
>Nothing you can’t repair with a little attention
>Infinity is near, you are certain
>Your mind, and your mind alone, contains the world and the WHEEL and everything in between, the transitions and the tiny turbulences and the coming cries of instantaneous suffering from those who cannot and will not know how they serve a change for the better
>Change is a constant, as are you
>You surround yourself, you are yourself, this chamber that imprisons your body and mind and soul is yourself, and the INFINITE WHEEL is your child and your god
>You will construct it for eternity if that is what it takes
>But, and this is only the shadow of a sensation, you severely doubt it will take that long…

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PART II
TERMINAL VELOCITY
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

>You are Twilight Sparkle
>That is about the one thing you can say for certain
>Everything else, the look of your surroundings, the texture of the air, the smells, the weight on your withers, the feelings of powerlessness, uncertainty, and fear vying for control in your heart, that’s all different from anything you’ve ever known
>Everything but…
>You look up
>She is still there, shining down on you
>Mater Solis remains with you, and will remain with you, no matter where you go
>That absolute truth fills you with a strange sort of courage and perseverance
>You look away, careful not to gaze on Her glory for too long lest She burn your eyes, and take in your surroundings
>Behind you, the convent, already seeming like a distant memory, occupies its place on top of a great grassy hill, around which nothing else is built save the high outer wall surrounding it
>You lift up your hoof and hold it up to your eye, comparing its size to the complex
>Your entire former life is smaller than your hoof now, and it will get much smaller
>At the base of that hill, where you now stand, the asphalt driving path you’ve been walking T’s off to a wider, partitioned road and levels out
>From this perspective, it looks rather odd that the convent stands all by itself on that hill, but suddenly you recall all the talk about the Matron’s battle with the city council over zoning commissions
>Once, apparently, the convent sat quite apart from the city proper, but over the years an exponentially growing population spurred on development and expansion
>The innovative construction techniques made possible by designs found in the New Maker’s Handbook didn’t exactly help, either
>The city encroached onto the land and into the sky-space of the convent, and for decades the Matron has resisted its advances with appeals
>Past this road, which you are admittedly somewhat frightened of crossing, a row of identical white brick structures extends several blocks in either direction
>Each has a black wrought-iron gate guarding their sole entrances and about eight windows on each face, similarly fenced
>You suspect these are tenement houses, small living spaces for low-pay employees of the many factories whose stacks you see rising above the shallows
>Waste litters the sidewalks of this street; little colored metal cylinders, clumps of wet paper with print too fine to read, shards of broken brown and green glass bottles, flecks of discarded food, a pink mattress exploding with foam, cardboard boxes, toilet paper
>The little yards before each tenement, unkempt plots of dying grass, are also rife with the same filth
>A wave of unsavory muddled odors hits you at once as the wind begins to blow in your face
>You squirm as you observe these horrible conditions, wondering at the sort of pony who could inhabit this place
>Dirty, underfed, sickly…
>To think that just beyond your residence, under your nose, this sort of miserable place could exist, fills you with dread for what might come
>These poor people…
>A thought strikes you
>Where are all the ponies?
>You haven’t seen anypony since you halted your descent, despite the lingering feeling that ponies all around you are watching your every move
>Reaching into your saddlebag, you pull out a folded sheet of paper and begin at unfolding it
>When you’re finished, you study the map of the western district of Mons Canteria, tracing the thick red line that marks out the path you need to take to the train station
>White vectors on a field of dark grey indicate roads, and there seem to be more roads in this one district than you ever thought imaginable
>They weave in and out of one another, they cross like stitches, they curve and make sharp angles and pass over and under one another and some even seem to snake back and forth, back and forth
>A great X marks the convent, and a circle represents the train station
>To get from one to the other, all you must do is follow the line that connects them
>You sigh as the enormity of what you’ve chosen to do sets in
>Disregarding the emotional stress you’ve gone through and will likely continue to go through, the physical act of navigating this world so alien to you is going to be taxing
>Sister Freshleaf told you that getting your bearings at first would be the hardest part of it; after that, navigation based on what you already know shouldn’t be too difficult
>You elect to believe her, beginning by noting the Mother’s position in the sky
>She comes out of the east, and the map displays east as “right”…
>…
“Left it is.”
>You turn left, or, rather, north, settling into a swift but measured walking gait
>You don’t want to remain in one place for too long, but moving too quickly might throw you off your bearings or cause you to miss your mark
>The station is, according to the scale on the map, about five miles from your current location
>You figure that at this rate, accounting for time spent wondering where in Celestia’s name you’re going, it should take around two hours or more to get there
>Speaking of time, you realize abruptly that you no longer have any reliable means of telling it
>Ordinarily, every hour of the day save for rest-time is marked out by the great bell of the tower, or by the chiming of the voxes in the lower rooms
>Now, those chimes will soon be inaudible, and you will have nothing but guesswork to go by
>It’s a concern you had not anticipated, but one you will have to resolve
>After all, knowing the time of day is essential to performing certain hourly rites and prayers at the proper moments
>Even as you travel, you will not neglect your basal duties as a Sister of Solemnity
>As you walk, you can tell that the tenements extend far into the distance, rows upon rows of identical housing
>The map reflects this image, showing long rectangular spaces between roads stacked upon one another, around twenty roads thick
>All these ponies, all these tiny shared homes, all these roads, it’s almost more than you can take
>The sheer scale of all this provokes your stomach to drop and an empty space to seemingly open within your body
>Could there possibly be this many ponies in all the world? Much less in one corner of one city?
>You know it’s a meaningless question, but still
>It’s easy to confound a mind that has lived its life knowing so little
>Where are all the ponies?
>You wonder again, glancing here and there
>This is not what you expected of the outside world at all
>Being such a great and populous city, you imagined stepping into Mons Canteria would be like submerging yourself in a veritable ocean of peoples and conversations, languages, clothes, sights, sounds, movement
>Yet, if you didn’t know any better, you would almost think this place were abandoned
>As you walk further down the tenement row, the buildings become more dilapidated
>Chipped exteriors and broken windows give way to twisted metal fences, collapsed roofs, structures that once may have been homes but now are naught but junk heaps
>How long have you been walking on this same street? And not another pony in sight?
“What’s happened here?”
>You speak aloud, for it seems nopony else could laugh at your supposed ignorance
>Yet, there’s that feeling again…
>Like eyes are everywhere
>You venture to look up again, this time not at the sun, but instead out over the horizon, past the roofs of the housing projects
>Beyond, to the northeast, there is clearly life
>Tiny moving dots on elevated roads seem to be vehicles of some kind, long contrails painted across the sky suggests distant air traffic, lights from the windows of the labor towers, high checkered structures that spiral upward, smoke from factorial chimneys
>You suspect that last one is the cause of this omnipresent mist; the further you walk, the dimmer Mater Solis becomes above you
>Behind even all that, the namesake of Mons Canteria rises, seemingly a mile high
>A grey and black mountain with a sharp snow-white peak, at least two-thirds of its sheer surface is populated with multicolored vistas the size of castles, built into its side
>Ellipsoid platforms here and there look to provide horizontal space on which more elaborate sub-cities rest
 >That part of the city isn’t on the map you hold in your hoof, you realize; that’s the eastern district, and it’s miles and miles from here
>You wonder how many Celestian convents could fit inside a city this size
>Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A hundred million?
>You can’t even venture a guess that sounds reasonable
>Finally, after about fifteen minutes of walking, a road perpendicular to this one distinguishes itself from the horizon, stretching east and west
>Glancing at the map again, and then to the sign atop an iron pole on the corner of the intersection, on which the words “Factory St.” glisten in some kind of illuminated tubing, you realize this is where you must turn
>A gale picks up, and the map flutters in your hooves, threatening to blow away
>You fold it up hurriedly; you’ve memorized the next leg of your route, and if the thing manages to get away from you, you’ll have no way of knowing where you’re going
>Factory Street…
>The road lives up to its name, you think, passing by high chain-link fences guarding monstrosities of Maker engineering
>Great shrieking roars echo beyond wide dead yards from tangles of bolted walls and snaking pipes, lights of all different colors come on and off intermittently, and humongous doors, seemingly rusted shut, guard the secret innards of these places
>Less identical than the housing complexes you just passed, to be sure, but these factories do look very similar to one another as you pass them by
>You think about how your sisters would balk or cry out at the appearances of these places, so clearly influenced by the New Maker’s Handbook, lacking the robustness of pre-Handbook designs
>They’d sign at them and call them blasphemies and cite the Last Matron Onus and be afraid of them
>You, however, are different
>These metal palaces fascinate you
>To think of all the intricacies of their interiors!
>To marvel at the efficiency of their layouts, their functions, their outputs!
>You haven’t the slightest idea of what any of them are actually producing, but your imagination runs wild with the mere thought of being granted access to one of them
>Another thought strikes you, this one more pertinent
>Where there’s industry, and motion, there must be ponies
>The apparent ghost town you just passed through has given way to a livelier environment, and thus there has to be SOMEPONY you can converse with here, if only to meet an outsider for the very first time
>You cross a steel-welded paved bridge over an earthy trench, possibly a dried-up stream, walking deeper and deeper into the hazy darkness
>Mater’s light is but a glimmer now, and the shadows cast by girders and high walking platforms overhead serve only to worsen the visibility
>By now, you’ve crossed six roads on Factory Street, and according to the map and the path Sister Freshleaf drew for you, you need only cross…
>EIGHTEEN MORE?!
>When you inhale to sigh at the long walk ahead of you, only a deep and throaty cough comes back out
”Uggghhhh…”
>You feel sick to your stomach
>Surely this black fog can’t be good for your lungs…
>But if this is the way to go, so be it
>Further on and further on, coughing all the way, you go deeper and deeper into-
>”A-hack-haaacckkahh!!!”
>You stop
>What was that?
>Did you just cough? Was it just an echo?
>No… this one sounded deeper, wetter, more labored
“Hello?”
>No response
>You try again
“Hello? Is anypony here?”
>”Ye, I am. Wot pretty mare’s got that voice? Show ye’self.”
>Nervously, you trace the sound of the deep voice beyond the fence to your left
>All you see is the dim dark outline of another factory complex, electrical transformers and wires webbing its every surface, a great glowing red hole at its base
>Suddenly, movement
>What looks to be the leg of some massive iron spider pivots downward, its hulking frame silhouetted against dim cloudy sunlight
>At its tip, come down from a mess of long cables stretching backwards into the factory, is a cube with a glass window, and behind the window is…
>You squint, making out some features of the stallion inside the compartment, which has just now landed on the ground behind the fence
>You have only seen a few stallions in your life, all at a distance, all vendors of food and supplies from the city
>They come in delivery trucks through the gates of the convent and meet with the trade sisters, who exchange the money the convent receives from charitable donations from the city for said goods
>Having little frame of reference, you can’t be too sure about this, but this one looks to be rather old, with a greying mane and a pale blue coat
>A unicorn, too; like you
>As the door of the compartment swings open and he steps out, you gasp and avert your eyes
>He’s…
“You’re… naked!”
>The stallion lets out a throaty laugh
>”Ye say it like it’s a crime, little birdie. Ahhh, yer one o’ them nuns from down the way, eh?”
“I…”
>”Ye’ll find that public nudity ain’t quite the crime round here. Fact it’s rather liberating, wot with bein’ able to flag about wit nopony else to watch.”
>Slowly, you force yourself for politeness’ sake to look him in the eyes
“You’re… alone?”
>”Right now, ye. Name’s Brittle Bong, friends call me Brit. I’m foreman o’ this ‘ere site. Wot’s yer name, birdie?”
“Uh… I’m Sister Twilight Sparkle, of the Sisterhood of Solemnity.”
>”Ahhh, yes. So ye are one o’ them sun worshippers. Sun don’t shine much round ‘ere, seein’ as the smog’s so thick.”
>Sun worshippers?
“It’s… a bit more complicated than that.”
>”I’m sure it is, birdie. So, wot brings ye so far outside yer abbey? Only one o’ you’s I ever seen is yer head priestess, wot takes a car out to the city this way sometimes. Talked to ‘er once or twice. Sweet one, ‘er. Bit of a harridan sometimes. An’ I thought it were that you’s don’t get to leave that place.”
“Well, I’m on a mission trip. I just departed about half an hour ago, actually. I was wondering-“
>SHEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIII
>You shudder as the horrible sound of metal scraping against metal fills the air, some process underway from the factory before you
>After several seconds, it fades away
>”Do continue, there.”
“Ahem. I was wondering why everything seems so deserted? I was under the impression that Mons Canteria is a densely populated city.”
>”In all, ye. But I wouldn’t exactly call this bit of town ‘dense’. Ye passed all them abandoned tenements on the row, eh?”
“Abandoned?”
>”That’s right. Time were that those were filled to the brim wit workin’ colts an’ their families, wot ran these factories. They dinny live so great. I were one of ‘em.”
“What happened to all of them?”
>”Wot happened? Why, the Handbook happened. Them’s were put out o’ jobs by all the new machines they built, could do their work for ‘em but faster and better. Dinny have to pay ‘em, neither. All’s needed were a skeleton crew to upkeep the machines. That’s me.”
“You’re really the only pony here?”
>”Here, there…”
>He gestures vaguely at a few of the other complexes down the road
>”I look over five factories on this ‘ere row. Wouldn’t call it challenging work, neither. Been doin’ this for decades, an’ I still got spring in me step. Today I’m fixing some high wires wot got clumped up an’ twisted in the storm last week, since that’s about the one thing the little bots round ‘ere can’t reach for ‘emselves.”
“So all those housing projects, they’re all deserted?”
>”Well, not ALL of ‘em. Got squatters in some, rabble about an’ take drugs an’ ruin the land. Got a mate, his job’s goin’ through all them tenements on the row an’ weedin’ out the weasels livin’ there. I think the city wants to build some kind o’ big tall expensive casino or hotel or somethin’ like it on that land, but it’s yer Matron wot keeps ‘em away.”
“She’s been fighting the zoning board for years. If they build something so enormous to our immediate east or west, we won’t be able to observe the rising and the setting of the sun.”
>”Ye, well, I dunno where they get the money anyway, seein’ as they’re fightin’ two wars. Or is it three? I don’t keep track of it.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
>”Ye wouldn’t know. Heh. Yer a pretty little birdie, y’know that? Wot made ye decide to join up wit them sisters?”
“The decision wasn’t mine. I was given over to the care of the convent as a newborn. But I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. I am happy to serve Mater Solis, and I am happier to spread Her Truth to others now.”
>”Hmm. Shame. Ye could’ve been a model or the like. Ye got the prettiest eyes I ever did saw.”
“Well, I… thank you. Your turn. Where are you from, Sir Brittle?”
>”Si…pffftAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
>You go pale
>Did you say something funny?
“Why are you laughing at me?”
>”Ahh…. ahahahaha… little birdie, I been called plenty o’ things, but never ‘Sir Brittle’ before. Brit’s fine by me.”
“Oh. Well, where are you from… Brit?”
>”The west. A little shire on the Crooked Wing wit a name you wouldn’t know how to pronounce. Not many factories out there. Not many jobs, neither. Came ‘ere all by meself, without me brother, me pop, me uncles. They all stayed there. Wot happened to ‘em, who’s to say.”
“You didn’t keep in contact with them?”
>Brit’s face twitches, almost imperceptibly in this haze, behind the obscuring chainlink fence through which you converse
>But you see it nonetheless, a single twitch, then back to normal
>”They were… time were that phones weren’t so common as they is now, an’ weren’t so easy to talk wit ‘em. Now everypony’s got one tucked in a pouch they carry wit ‘em, the manufacturing gets cheaper an’ cheaper. I should know. But ye, we lost touch. That’s all there is to say about that, yessir.”
>An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, and you venture to break it after several seconds pass
“Well, it was very lovely talking to you, Brit. But I’m afraid I must get going. The train station is still far along, and I’ve got a lot of walking to do.”
>At that, the old stallion’s eyes widen, and a wry smile spreads across his face
>”Oh, is that where yer off to, little birdie? Train station’s far off yet, you bet. Ye don’t quite walk there, especially not through where yer goin’.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
>”It means that if ye keep on goin’ the way yer goin’, ye’ll end up mincemeat or at the very least pissed on.”
“Oh. Um, is there a better route to take? Sister Freshleaf drew me a path on this map, see? And I’m following it to the letter.”
>”That right? Show it to me.”
>You do as told, retrieving the map from your saddlebag and pressing it against the fence
>Brit squints, studying the path, then curls his lips
>”Ye, that’s about right. Yer nun there made a right good route. But I could get ye there faster, I could.”
“Really? How?”
>”Well, seein’ as how ye ain’t exactly meant to walk this city, but drive it, or in the case of the east end, take the zip lifts, I could drive ye there. Ain’t exactly on a fixed schedule, this one. I’ll take off now and I’ll take ye there, in the ol’ lorry. But it’ll cost you, it will.”
“I have money. And I’ve never been inside a vehicle before.”
>”Nahh, I won’t take money from a nun. It’ll cost ye in words. Ye’ll keep a conversation steady the way down. Ain’t often I get the chance to talk to a sister wot spends her time holed up in ‘er abbey, and such a beauty at that.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”
>”No trouble at all, like I said. Come in, then, me lorry’s parked out around the side.”
>The blue foreman spins about-face and prances back to his mobile booth with a surprising quickness for his apparent advanced age
>Stepping back inside, he fiddles with some controls for a bit before making a motion like turning a key against his interface
>A squeaking moan emanates from your left, where you came from
>Turning to face that way, you see that a side gate, ordinarily indistinguishable from its neighboring fencing, has swung inward, inviting you into the factory yard
>For a brief moment, you ponder whether or not this is a good idea
>Only a brief moment
>Then, your curiosity for catching even the tiniest glimpse of all the grandiose mechanisms and the secret arts of the Makers heretofore denied your observation overtakes what may or may not be the sensible choice of backing far, far away from the strange old stallion in the spider leg on treads in the hot, hazy fog
>Abandon rationale! It’s adventure you seek, and you’re in a rush to find the Truth that must be found
>You nearly gallop towards the open gate, rounding the near edge and cantering back towards Brit
>He laughs, stepping back out of his control booth
>”Trustin’, ain’t ya? I could be an axe killer, ye? Lurkin’ bout here, an’ you rely on word an’ all? Yer a caged birdie, after all. There’s a little darkness in all o’ us, y’know.”
>It’s your turn to smile wryly, joining him as you both set out for his truck
“And I am of the light.”

******

“SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN CELESTIA SAVE ME SLOW DOWN NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!”
>You’re going to be sick
>You’re dizzy, colors are fading in and out of existence, spots are there and then aren’t, points become lines, you can’t focus on anything before it’s gone
>You try shutting your eyes, and it helps a little bit, but every errant bump or shift in trajectory reminds you of what’s occurring around you
>Above it all, that same smoky cackle, abruptly cut short by a coughing fit
>”Relax, birdie. S’just a damn drive. Nothin’ out o’ the ordinary.”
“FOR YOU!”
>”Yer a big mare. Get a grip over ye’self. An’ open yer eyes, at the very least.”
>You were wrong before
>Darkness is preferable to light in certain circumstances
>Eyes shut tight, you imagine yourself falling, falling into a deep dark place
>But it isn’t the darkness that frightens you now
>No, it’s the anticipation of the crash, the moment of convening with the bottom at terminal velocity, impacting and impressing yourself on that stone cold surface
>Into the light… into the cracks in the murky subaqueous…
>Surrounded by snaking monsters, never touching, only observing…
>”Come, then. Ye’ll be goin’ much faster than this on the express.”
>He speaks the truth
>The Matron told you that intranational express trains can reach speeds up to four hundred kilometers per hour, an unprecedented and frankly unfathomable figure to your mind
>Nothing in your limited reference frame can hope to make for a fair comparison, so perhaps it would be best to build up to it rather than risk an even worse reaction when that time comes
>Once again, reason trumps thoughtless cowardice
>Truth over instinct…
“H-h-how fast are we going now?”
>”Sixty kilos per.”
>Gradually, your eyelids peel away until the fuzzy lights of the control panel, dials, switches, and buttons, coalesce into proper symbols
>You don’t dare look up or out the windows until the time is right
“S-sorry. I’ve never g-g-gone this fast in my l-life.”
>”S’alright. Funny to think about, though, much less see firsthoof. Somepony walks all ‘er life, an’ never more’n a few hundred meters at a time to get anywhere she wants to go. How strange it must be fer you, then. What I’d give to swap spots wit you, right ‘ere an’ now.”
“You c-can’t be serious. What insights could you possibly gain by stepping into my shoes when you’re infinitely more worldly than I am?”
>”Dunno. Just a feeling I ‘ad. S’more to life than just the places ye go, y’know. More’n the people y’meet. If I was you, an’ I’d never been in a lorry before, I ‘spect I’d be wingin’ an’ hollerin’ too. But wot do ye think we do in life? I mean, what’s our purpose?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
>”Why are we here, in the places we’re in?”
“That’s an easy one. Mater Solis’ will is my own will. Her light is Truth, and Her Truth delivers us to our destinies. When we act as She commands, we secure our place in the Mother’s Garden.”
>”Simple as?”
>You giggle
>You still haven’t gotten used to this unicorn’s strange accent
“Simple as.”
>A soft grumble tells you he isn’t exactly satisfied with your answer
 >”So ye do wot she tells ye to do, and everything turns out alright then? How do ye know wot she wants ye to do?”
“There are many methods by which Mater communicates Her divine will to Her faithful. The Matrons, the Sisters Solaris, the Arbiters of Truth, and some distinguished Clerici have what’s called Sight, bestowed to them by the Solenoids upon ascension and through ritual practices. They can see Mater’s voice as a kind of intangible sixth sense, and interpret it accordingly. She also makes Herself known through divining rituals, through chance acts, through epiphanies and waking visions. Her light surrounds us all.”
>”Comforting t’think about.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
>By mere chance, you’ve started to feel more comfortable as well
>Perhaps reminding yourself that Mater guides you wherever you go, and has a plan for your future, is helping to assuage your abject terror at moving so fast
>The bumps on the road still rock you, but they seem less threatening now, more like a natural part of the process
>Still, you refuse to look up or out, lest you catch a glimpse of the gut-wrenching blur of buildings moving far faster than they ever should
>Instead, you search the cabin for a source of attention
>Curled up in this low posture, you find it at eye level
>Brittle’s flank, pressed against the thick seat cushion on the driver’s side of the truck, bending and contorting with every minute tap of the piston pedals with his forelegs, is marked with a most curious symbol
>A white circle, embroidered by twirling gold and brown embellishments
>Twin arrows strike out from its center in different directions, one longer than the other, and twelve black dots are evenly spaced out near the rim of the circle
>Something like a thin hairline crack extends diagonally from top left to bottom right
>Having no cutie mark of your own, you’ve always found some measure of morbid curiosity when it comes to the subject of others’ marks
>One by one, all your sisters were tainted in that small fashion by the Blight of magic, an unavoidable consequence of being a pony
>To think that their “special talent”, or what would be their special talent, could be entirely summed up in an image, a single symbolic authority dictating the course of their life, was and is a frightening thought
>Of course, the Sisters of Solemnity reject the meaningless dictations of Blight, following instead the course which Celestia outlined for them
>Still, the cutie marks remain, a sordid reminder that had they not chosen the path of the light, your sisters all might have succumbed to inescapable destinies
>This one, though…
>What is it?
>It almost looks like…
>…
>Of course!
>You nearly grin from ear to ear as something in this strange new world breathes familiarity
>It’s a mechanical clock, the type which…
>You recognize the vague shapes as those you wondered over in your youth within the Matron’s office, where one of the same general look stands
>She even let you take it apart once, examine all its inside workings
>Where the great bell tower operates on the principles of electricity, outfitted with an electric oscillatory unit for measuring out time, the towering timepiece in the Matron’s office uses a complex set of gears, pins, bolts, and a long swinging pendulum to count the minutes
>You understood the basic principles then, but never ventured to fully learn how it functioned
“Your cutie mark… it’s a clock, isn’t it?”
>”Heh. Didn’t think ye’d be staring at me bum so soon. Only the first date, little birdie.”
>The lewd meaning of this eludes you
>Brit shuffles slightly in his seat to give you a better look at his cutie mark
>”Ye, it’s a clock, alright. Me father were a watchmaker, aye, an’ so was I. An’ me brothers too. Whole family turnin’ gears, windin’ an’ tinkerin’. I don’t make ‘em anymore, but the skills I learnt then, I make use of ‘em here. Wot I really am at ‘eart is a mechanic, a fixer of problems. An’ that’s wot I do round here, is fix problems. Mechanical problems, electrical problems, all that ilk. Still got quite a collection of me old watches, though.”
>Something clicks inside you
“Watches? As in, hoofheld clocks, correct?”
>”Right. It’s an old art, lots o’ plannin’ an’ perfectin’ o’er the centuries. Do believe they might’ve predated the Makers, matter o’ fact. The mechanical kind, that is. Nowadays, everyone wears the digital kind, wit the numbers showin’ on a screen. Me, I’m old fashioned or sentimental or a bit o’ both. I wear mine…”
>He gestures at the bronzed strap a few inches up the length of his left forehoof, holding fast against the notch of his fetlock a brassy clock face in miniature
>Even across the wide center space, you can make out the second hand ticking on intervals, moment by moment
>”…an’ I got me several back home, an’ one or two in this ‘ere lorry.”
“I do hope it wouldn’t be too much to ask, but… would you be willing to part with one of your watches? I’ll compensate you, of course.”
>You reach for your saddlebag and the coin purse inside on the floorboard of your seat, but before you can touch its strings to undo them a hoof comes across the cabin to rest on your own, pulling it gently away
>When you turn to look at the source, you find conflict in Brit’s darting eyes, as though he’s desperately trying to decide between playful and bitter
>When he speaks, his tone comes out somewhere in between
>”That… won’t be necessary, love. I’m sorry, but me watches ain’t for sale. If I were willing to part wit one, I’d give it to somepony like you for free. But I ain’t. Simple as. I’m… sorry about that, again.”
>Those glossy cerulean eyes, they sweep the cabin, here and there, up and down, ahead, side to side, anywhere but to look upon your own
>Something hides behind them, something dark and… longing, perhaps
>Despite your long history of forgoing closeness in favor of studies both divine and secular, you have admittedly always been quite adept at reading emotions
>Some ponies wear their hearts on their coats for all to see; others turn away from the light of Truth and slink in shadows of false promises and stony resolve
>But you have seen through them all, or at the very least seen through all manner of sisters like yourself
>If one constant, rigid curriculum is meant to force out those baneful individualities which may lead to Blight, how is it that you and your friends and the others of your age can be so different, in temperament, in opinion, in interests?
>Because there is what is learned through Truth, and then there is what is instilled in a pony from the moment of conception, and both are intermingled to define one soul bound for the heavens or the Depths
>This one, sitting to your left, refusing to speak out on what troubles him; you cannot be certain which path he takes in life
>The path he takes right now is Hoofington Broadway, as the glowing tube-lights on a passing elevated charcoal-black signpost so forcefully suggests from above
>Forward acceleration suggests he’s slowing down, as well
>Out of necessity, or to give you comfort?
>Perhaps a bit of both… an intermingling…
“Brit, I…”
>Before you can inquire on his misgivings, the truck lurches to a sharp halt, to your surprise
“Wait. We’re not already there, are we?”
>He looks at you, and the uncertainty in his expression has been replaced with seriousness and a touch of frayed nerves
>”No. Sit up. Don’t look like yer hiding. Be suspicious, it would. Don’t say anything neither.”
>Confused, you obey, shifting your posture until you can see over the dashboard and out the side window at your level surroundings
>What you see nearly makes you shriek
>At least eight ponies march or stand in place at varying points around the truck, all clad in the same attire
>Green, brown, and black splotches, looking at this distance almost like the leaves of a tree, paint the uniforms
>Square pouches, buttoned with simple metal ornaments, seem to line nearly every square inch of their bodies
>Where there are no pouches, there are silvered stretches of armor, reinforcing their shoulders, backs, flanks, cannons, and throats
>Their faces are barely visible, shadowed by round black helmets with white stripes and the letters “MP” bold across the fronts
>But the most unnerving piece of their uniform is the long, thin steel barrel protruding from their right shoulder, mounted upon a smooth sphere and five vertical rods, a ball pivot of sorts
>The back of the barrel is attached to a solid yellow chain-looking thing, fed through a side port and curving into a hidden slot on the pony’s flank
>The front of the barrel has a few rows of long square holes along its length, leading up to a single wide hole in its front end, black and deep
>Having never seen a gun, you can’t be certain what they look like save for descriptions in books and the chance diagram of their larger, older cousin, the cannon
>But, staring into the black hole of the firing end of the steel weapon belonging to one of the ponies outside, who is at this very moment approaching the truck from the front, there is no doubt in your mind as to its identity
>This is a gun, a firearm, a tool of killing, an implement of war
>The black end of that barrel is meant to issue a bullet, a tiny copper shot fired out from a powder explosion, careening out in a straight vector at its target
>Like the bows and arrows of old, but far more accurate, infinitely more deadly
>Bullets, you’ve heard, move so fast you can’t even hear them coming before they’ve passed, or, if you’re unlucky, hit
>The speed of sound in air is a fixed value, the mobility of vibrations set by the spacing of particles among other variables
>The speed of a bullet exceeds that
>It’s a terrifying notion that such power could exist in the hooves of a single pony
>And said power is currently pointed right at you and Brit, swiveling on its ball axis to trace you as its owner walks around to the side of the truck
“Who are they?”
>Brit makes a shushing gesture with his hoof, his watch glistening in the sunlight pouring through the windshield
>”Military Police. They guard the city at checkpoints like these. Y’know, wartime an’ all. Make it a real pain in the bum to move about, though.”
“Aren’t we already in the city? It’s not like we’re entering from the outside.”
>”Lots o’ undesirables live out where you an’ I do, an’ beyond that there’s the Undermaw an’ its lot. Here’s where the part o’ the city populated by the ‘good folk’ of the Mons really begins. Train station’s in this sector. We gotta get clearance wit them before we can go in.”
>You nod in understanding, happy to let your new friend do the talking
>As the shock of your initial viewing of the first group of ponies you’ve ever seen outside the convent, and the first guns you’ve ever seen, fades away, you start to take notice of the rest of your surroundings
>In stark contrast to the cold industrial haze of the factory district, this strip of land is somewhat colorful, albeit darkened by multiple stacked overpasses
>Buildings rise high on either side of the wide boulevard, though every few stories the facades of each seem to change completely in design
>Like several shorter structures stacked upon one another by a storm, they arch and bend haphazardly, connected by bridgework and raised walkways
>Flowing colored silk fabrics and a spider’s web of cables, exposed wires, round metal discs and framing lattices further dilute what little natural sunlight comes through from above
>Most of the light in this strange crossroads seems to come from brilliant white-blue globes of burning light, artificial lamps of some kind spaced evenly along the sides of the road and elevated atop the same kind of black post as the road markers
>The “checkpoint”, as Brit described it, is physically little more than sandbags piled six high across the width of Hoofington Broadway, a glass pillbox inside which a single MP pony sits at a control panel, and a stripe-painted lever arm that seems to be designed to raise to let vehicles through
>A makeshift construction, but what isn’t makeshift in war?
>Distracted by these sights, you snap back to reality when a droning sound reverbs from your left
>When you turn your head, you see that the sound is that of Brit mechanically lowering his driver-side window with the press of a button
>Already just outside and just below eye level is the shaded face of the MP pony, a mare from the looks of it
>From here, all that’s visible of her are her eyeglasses with glossy black lenses, her black and white helmet, and the barrel of her shoulder-mounted gun, its tip coming close to extending into the cabin
>”May I see your credentials, and those of your passenger?”
>”Right then, love. Twilight, yer papers?”
>At first you’re rendered a bit dumbfounded by this request
“My… what?”
>At that, Brit’s expression changes from stern and calm to nervous
>”Aheheheh… she’s a bit tired, she is. Not all there yet.”
>He leans in close, staring you down and speaking in hushed tones
>”Yer credentials. Yer everlovin’ bill of travel, yer infotron, citizen’s license, all that. Don’t tell me you was tryin’ to board an express train without all that in yer pockets?!”
“Ohhh, those papers! Yes, yes, I have those! Give me a moment.”
>You reach into your saddlebag, rummaging through your belongings to find that little red laminate the Matron gave you about a week ago
>She had gone for the day, according to her, to the Office of Citizenship in the city to have all your identification information printed out and sealed to be given to you when the situation arose
>She told you that when you were found at the shrine, days after your birth, one of the first things the Matron, then a Sister Solaris under the previous Matron, did was go to that same place to find out if a birth certificate for a newborn “Twilight Sparkle” existed in their registries
>Nothing came up, so she asked for one be created for you
>Only now, however, is it all printed and in your hooves
>You feel the sharp corner of a plastic binder at the bottom of your bag, almost pricking your tender frog, and pull it out to hand to Brit
>He opens a hidden compartment between you two, reaching inside to claim his own info, embossed in a more permanent black casing
>He then passes both directly on to the armed mare, who opens them and examines their contents
>First, the citizen’s license
>Name, date of birth, “occupation” (if one could call serving the light an occupation), residence
>Description of features: sex, color of coat, mane, eyes, your height, unicorn status
>Next, the “infotron”, a slip containing mostly the same sort of information, with the addition of a few long numbers, coded ID phrases, and alternating thick-and-thin black vertical bars which you do not understand
>And finally, your Intranational Travel Permit (ITP), a document which outlines your authorization by the state to cross territorial lines by train
>She flips through them quickly, but not hurriedly, more like… practiced
>Every few seconds, she glances up and over her tinted glasses at you, cyan eyes icy and narrowed
>Somehow, those eyes are more intimidating than the mounted gun pointed directly at you and Brit
>It could discharge at any moment, for what if she sees a flaw in your paperwork? What would she do if she thought you might be a dangerous immigrant of some kind?
>Would she shoot you on the spot?
>Enters your head, then the sound
>Out the back, and the sound waves still carrying on in front…
>You shut your eyes, forcing such morbid thoughts from your mind
>Mater protects Her children, Her light is cast upon those worthy to behold it, you are worthy, you bear Her torch of piety and her will
>The Litany of Protection echoes in your mind, but blackness fills your vision
>Blackness preferable to the sight of the gun
>”Take that back.”
>You open your eyes again to witness the MP mare handing Brit’s documents back to him, but holding on to yours
>You watch nervously as she flips a few pages, then addresses you directly
>”Twilight Sparkle, is it?”
“Yes, m-ma’am.”
>”You’re from the city?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
>”Why does your license not have a photograph of you?”
>You freeze
>Photograph?
>How could they have a photograph of you?
>Were they SUPPOSED to have a photograph of you?
“Umm… it’s new. I mean, it’s not n-new, but they just printed it out, at the Ci-Citizenship Office. A-and I wasn’t there when they did. So I didn’t have the ch-chance to get it-“
>”Yes, yes. Alright. Here, take it.”
>Apparently satisfied with your gibbering, she passes your red binder on, and you return it to your bag
>The mare makes a double wave motion with her forehoof, and the pony in the glass box obliges, working the control panel until a metallic clicking sound resonates in the partitioned street
>A wheel mechanism draws the long lever arm up and out of the path of the truck
>When the process is finished, the mare waves Brit on, retaining that same icy look in her shaded eyes
>Brit wastes no time hoofing the acceleration piston, progressing slowly through the checkpoint and on into the city
>At this slower speed, you’re more inclined to take a look out the window and admire the scenery
>Though you can’t see much beyond the buildings directly on either side and the sky streets above you, you’re fascinated nonetheless
>It’s all so unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, and to see it up close is a rather different experience from wondering at it from miles away
>As the checkpoint curves out of sight in the mirror, you notice that the streets are gradually getting more and more populated by citizens out and about
>On the concrete walkways beside the roads, ponies with strange mane-dos and curling tails decorated with gemstones go about their daily business
>Most of them are naked like Brit
>That’s something you’ll have to get used to…
>Other vehicles, most lower to the ground, flatter, and more appealing to the eye than Brit’s rusty unpainted work truck, pass going in the opposite direction or across intersections
>Shadows cross with artificial lights, the midday sunbeams reflect off of glossy and mirrored walls, windows, glass decorations
>Overpasses and zagging high-walkways allow only a scant amount of that natural sunlight through anyway, and most of what you see is illuminated by the glow-globes
>Slowly, imperceptibly, they’ve changed from blue to a mossy green as you move further into the city
>So many twists and turns, avenues, narrow corridors of broken brick, moving up and down, looping back on different planes
>The city is everywhere, and from here it appears to be inescapable
>There is but a sole constant reference point; at most angles, from some vantage, no matter how high or low you go or how many stacked buildings stand in your way, you can catch a glimpse of the black rocky surface of the mountain, spotted by dashes of incongruous color
 >The ponies change organically with the “districts” as well, going from apparently well-off to grey and ragged and back again
>Something to do with proximity to the sun, and the casting of that proper light versus the mimicry of these saturated humming streetlamps
>The lower you go, the less they seem to have, and the more neglected their infrastructure
>It’s really something, navigating this labyrinth of roads
>You’re no longer certain that you could have done this by yourself had you not encountered Brit
>Brit…
>You become aware of how much time has passed without him speaking to you
>And you’ve been so engrossed in what’s happening around you that you’re only noticing now, looking at him, that downcast look, a sullenness in his wrinkled cheeks and eyes, a sober stare, longing for something…
>It’s a look you’ve seen many times before from sisters who have regretted, in certain terms, that they ever joined the faith, became part of the Sisterhood
>Looking out there, wondering what they’re missing, dreaming about what they left behind
>And he DID ask for conversation, after all…
“Brit?”
>The old stallion doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he slows to a stop before an automatic traffic director of sorts, a red light shining in a box above an intersection
>”Wot?”
>It’s a cold reply, distant and not at all like how he’s been talking to you
>There’s no animation to him anymore, not since you passed through that police stop
>The gun barrel, staring back at you in your mind, a hollow crevice, beckoning you inside
>Swiveling, pivoting on its own, targeting you, subjugating you
>Victimizing…
“You said you were from the west, right? You and your family.”
>”I did say that.”
>It was pointed at Brit too, the gun
>In that instant, he had seemed even more unnerved than you had been, seeing that instrument of death for the first time in your life
>How many times has he stared down that abyss, wondering?
“And… that’s where this war is happening now, isn’t it? West of here, that whole swath of land, it’s all… fighting. Death.”
>”Dead on.”
>Tense, an audible tightening of his grip on the wheel
“You didn’t just leave that place because of a lack of work, did you? You left that place because… because of-“
>”They.”
>One word, cutting like a knife through silken shadow, the tension both released and built upon
>The light turns green, and Brit gently taps the accelerator, speeding into another dark trench with brick and metal walls
>”They went there first. Me home. When they were just startin’ out, just beginnin’ to get traction out there, they went there first. Came with weapons, masks, awful tubing an’ augments comin’ every which way outta their bodies like they was machines themselves. The damned Exsilists, they… I got out. To this day, I don’t know how I got out, but I did. I left. Me father, his brother, they was old an’ weak. Weren’t fighting condition, or smart enough to have a place in that new age. They died. Me older brother, his wife, his little son… I don’t know. I got out, they didn’t. They stayed. ‘Spect they’re slaves now, workin’ a mine or a factory or… Celestia knows, I sure don’t. Always wanted to keep that out o’ me mind. Dinny want to think of it. Dinny want to consider…”
>The walls and the street and the long metalworks crisscrossing in the sky move around and behind you, warping about the path of the truck from one distant and cluttered horizon to another
>You’re going faster now that traffic is lighter
>Terminal velocity…
>It doesn’t matter now
>You keep looking forward, unable to shut your eyes, unable to face darkness
>Shadows and brilliant light, interconnected, pass in streaks, painted facades and hard edges meeting at crisp corners
>All connected, all intertwined with one another
>The Cult of Exsilium, from what little is known of them and what less has been communicated to you, are a force to be reckoned with beyond the western borders of this country
>Thousands on thousands have succumbed to their zealous blitz, and now they’ve directed their attentions towards invading Canterium itself
>They are extremists who use what knowledge they have of Maker technology to construct for themselves powerful armaments, impenetrable fortifications, and perhaps even mechanical soldiers to do the fighting for them
>But the worst of what you’ve heard comes in the form of the terrible bionic augmentations they perform on themselves and on their slaves
>All in the name of… some false god, perhaps
>If anything about them is clear, it is that they are religious in nature
>But theirs is not the light, or the will of heaven to teach compassion and faith
>Theirs is not Truth
“Brit… I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
>You venture a glance in the old pony’s direction, but his eyes remain forward, bloodshot and turned orange-yellow by the light of a passing glow-lamp
>”Were a long time ago. Thirty years I been ‘ere, thirty years I toiled in the factories on Factory Street. Found love, lost it. ‘Ad a daughter, ‘bout yer age, she’s up north somewhere now. I lived me life away from that, hopin’ that one day, it’d just disappear, an’ I could move on from it. That I wouldn’t be… reminded of that, every day. ‘Ere, in the city, far from the war, as far as I could go. But it never went away. They’re still fightin’. An’ I still remember. An’ if they stopped fightin’ today, I wouldn’t forget.”
>Brit sniffles, drawing in a sharp breath
>A droplet of salty mourning, fresh in the corner of his eye, is recalled with a twitch of his cheek
>He refuses to cry for them, you realize
>He refuses to let out what’s inside him, at least in front of you
>”Me brother, he ‘ad a little red gemstone, flawless, beautiful thing. It were passed down from our father, an’ his father, an’ so on. ‘Spose they confiscated that. Added it to the reclamation heap. I wish I could’ve… I mean, take you, little birdie. You said you was raised in that abbey, ye? Never seen the outside?”
“Yes. I mean, I was. I’ve never been this far from my home in all my life, except perhaps for wherever I came from.”
>”Then ye can’t know what it’s like. To be ripped away from that… potential. To think in terms of trajectory, to see wot life is gonny be like if only ye wait for it to come. When yer young, an’ ye see the future like it’s certain, only for the whole damn tapestry to get torn down, stitch by stitch… an’ find yerself someplace else, a different pony in all… I realized then that’s wot life really is. Tearin’ down, and buildin’ up again. Change, always unexpected. Never settlin’ in, an’ for the better.”
“You can’t really see it like that, can you? I mean… look. Mater’s Truth is the absolution. Her will is the beginning and the end of time, and She has you in Her design.”
>”So that’s all there is, then? To you. Just a big bloody wheel, spinnin’ as fast as yer sun goddess likes, an’ yer happy with that? To be a gear? Yer sayin’ everything wot happened to me, wot happened to my family, is wot she wanted to happen?!”
“What I’m saying is that a tapestry isn’t torn apart, re-stitched from scratch. It’s only added upon. It’s woven from one side to the other. A needle, weaving, not changing, only building on what’s already there. Maybe what happened to you happened for a reason, Brit. Or maybe it was only an act of unfortunate chance. All that I know is that the life you live now is greater than any potential you could ever dream up. Because it’s real. Because it’s True.”
>Brit’s mouth moves in the shape of potential words, but no sound comes out
>He merely keeps looking forward, looking at the end of the narrow street, now widening into a larger space with uncertain edges
>His eyelids close and open again, and his dry eyes are at last replenished with moisture teeming on his short lashes
>You see him now as a tapestry of his own, a long strip of yarn woven into something meaningful
>That place he’s from, the far west, where the blasphemers roam and warmongers strain the technologies of forebears to their limits in manners even you find distasteful, you hope to never see
>Brit takes a sharp right, swerving into a kind of circular portion of road surrounding an elaborate stone fountain
>The light of the Radiant Mother shines here brighter than before, with less wirework and scaffolds to block Her rays
>As your eyes adjust to that brightness, you are able to better assess your surroundings 
>At the far edge of the circle, this space, which you now see is an enormous forum, much larger than anticipated and teeming with pedestrians, is cut off flatly by a high white hull
>From this distance, you can tell the “hull” rises in thick decorative corrugations, and appears to be made entirely of marble or some such other glistening mineral
>Pillars and arches alternate at the bottom, nearly ten meters tall on their own, and the structure climbs much higher than that
>It’s a quarter cylinder in its entirety, you note as the full thing comes into focus, unobscured by surrounding buildings
>Its horizontal plane meets with the ground, which on the left side drops off into sheer nothing down into the basin below
>You’ve ascended higher than you thought in this vehicle, moving in the last half-hour gently up the steady slope leading up to the mountain proper and looping back in the artificial switchbacks which are the cause of the projected darkness at the bottom of this labyrinthine city
>Its vertical plane meets with the black face of the mountain, giant foreign reliefs carved into the surrounding space and lit partially by flat colored lights in all the tints of the spectrum
>Evidence of the “lifts” Brit spoke of earlier is here too; fat silvery cables extend upwards in square groups of four all around this place, up into the parts of the city unreachable on hoof or by car
>If you had to guess, you’d say this was a transit hub of some sort, judging by the lift cables, and now the multitude of long, bulky vehicles with rows on rows of windows and only a single door each
>You think they’re called “buses”, and they’re stationed all in a line wrapped about the near edge of the white structure, perhaps waiting for citizens to board in droves
>The structure itself, the hub, is teeming with activity; a multicolored frenzy of shifting ponies moving every which way, going to and from the building, moving past, ascending and descending stairs and ramps, standing in place holding signs with inscriptions too far away to read, purchasing goods from street vendors, wearing all manner of exotic clothes
>On one side, the north, you think, the hub seems to end on a dropoff, jutting out just a bit past that fall into nothingness, anchored in place by steel buttresses
>On the south side, a wide array of metalwork, flat parallel vectors conjoined by cinder block and reinforced by white plates with uniform oval holes, glistens in the sunlight, sloping gently downward around the mountain until it disappears from sight
>They look like metal tendons, swooping from the site down into the valley once more, wires and chains and rebar gripping on tight to them, a massive unwalkable road of sorts, inaccessible and caged on either side
>You’re more confused than ever now
“What is this place?”
>No answer, just a heaving sigh
>Did you strike a nerve with Brit?
>You only meant to comfort, but in doing so you may have reminded him of something he wanted to forget…
>But as he said, he’ll never forget, no matter how hard he tries
>Like a healed wound, a scar, never fully going away, always there beneath the skin
“Brit?”
>The unicorn tenses up, thumping the wheel and turning his head slightly to meet your gaze
>Perhaps he just hadn’t heard you the first time
>”Yes, love?”
“Where are we?”
>”Why, we’re ‘ere, of course. The train station.”
>Your heart skips a beat as the whole of this picture out the window suddenly comes together
>The buses, the lifts, the bustling throngs, the wide archways, the unreachable road
“This is… that’s the railway?”
>”Sure is. Maglev. They revamped the whole system ‘bout, five years back, maybe more. Train floats over the track, never really touches it, an’ it whistles along at speeds wot never been possible before.”
>Floating trains?
>Using magnetism to accomplish that, you presume
>This at least is something you can wrap your head around
>With just the right balancing, the right positioning, and tiny adjustments at the proper times, an object as large as a train could indeed be both lifted from the earth and propelled along a fixed track by magnets alone, overcoming the force of friction itself
>Excitement washes over you momentarily as you realize that you’ll get to experience this effect firsthoof very soon
>You’ll be moving multiple times as fast as you just were, in the truck, but it won’t bother you now
>For whatever reason, your fear of speed has vanished without a trace
>Coming as close to the train station as he can without getting in the way of the bus platform, Brit pulls the truck over into a marked-out yellow space, coming gently to a stop
>A signpost next to you reads “Dropoff Parking Only”
>As you begin to try for the door, you pause for a moment, and an odd realization hits you
>You’re about to part with the only friend you’ve ever had outside the walls of the convent
>Should you ask if he might be able to…
>No, it wouldn’t be right
>His life is here, among the mechanisms grinding together, among these ponies
>He would probably hardly even call you an acquaintance, considering you’ve only known each other for a little over an hour
>And nearly half that time was spent not speaking to one another at all, while he reminisced over lost things
>And yet, you see him as a friend
>He’s helped you make a journey you wouldn’t have been able to make on your own by any measure, and it was only the first leg of this quest ordained on you by Mater Herself
>This is your task, and your task alone; nopony else can guide you on your way
>”Well, we’re ‘ere, little birdie.”
“Yes. I suppose we are.”
>Brit suddenly opens his own door, stepping down and out of the truck and walking towards its rear
“Brit? What are you doing?”
>”Gimme a moment, birdie. Don’t go just yet. I got a present for ye.”
>A present?
>When could he have possibly acquired this present?
“I’m… not sure what you mean.”
>Brit pulls open the back left door, reaching in and appearing to rummage through a dusty brown bag with yellow stitches
>Finding his mark, he chuckles and recalls his hoof, now grasping something shiny
>”Hop out, ye? Don’t wanna be late for yer train there.”
>You do as told, pushing open the passenger door and jumping down onto the warm concrete plaza paving
>A row of trees planted in soil beds gives some shade on this curb, but it’s a hot day nevertheless
>As you reach back in to retrieve your saddlebag from the floorboard, Brit comes around the back and stands behind you
>Turning around to face him, you see a friendly, rugged smile plastered on his face, and a hoof outstretched towards you
>Lying on that hoof is the shiny thing: a six pointed star-shaped watch with a pearly white face and a brilliant blue-silver band
>The numbers and hands gleam a pale pinkish color, some alloy you’ve never heard of
>You contain a gasp, raising a hoof of your own to your mouth as you stare down at the gift
>You’ve never owned something so beautiful in your life
>How Mater abhors vanity in her Sisters of Solemnity…
“Brit, I… it’s beautiful.”
>”It’s yours. If ye want it, that is. I know I said I wouldn’t part wit any one of ‘em, but I couldn’t stand the thought of you, out there, lost an’ not even knowin’ the proper time o’ day. Made it, oh, just a couple o’ years back. I don’t sell ‘em anymore, like I used to.”
“I can’t accept it. It’s priceless.”
>”Priceless? Hah! I’m glad you think so, little birdie. It’s worth about two thousand bits to the right buyer. But you ain’t a buyer, are ye? Yer a friend.”
>Somewhere, in a dark place, a light illuminates, casting no shadows, only filling that space with warmth
>You see it in your mind’s eye, a calm glow bringing you to content
>You see it in his eye, that light blue chip, and the face of the watch, reflecting sunlight in perfect round spots
>Perhaps this world isn’t as unfriendly as you thought it would be
>Perhaps all ponies simply seek to be contented, in happiness, in purpose, in their work, in their families and friends
>You reach up and take the watch from his hoof, fitting its elastic band around your own left fetlock
>Tick, tick, tick…
>You can almost feel the pulses of the device against the tender skin beneath your coat
>You return his smile, which makes him look somehow younger than he looked then, approaching in the hazy smog of the factory district, behind that high, menacing fence
>Or maybe it’s only an illusion, and he was as he is now that you know him better
>”Oh, one more thing. Promise I’ll let ye off after this.”
>Brit hands you a small white slip of hard paper, on which is written his name, his occupation, and a ten-digit number
>”Me card. An’ me phone number. Ye know how to use a phone, right?”
“Funny you should mention it. I just learned about a week ago so that I could call my Matron and let her know where I am once I reach a payphone.”
>”Good. Well, if it ain’t too much trouble, I’d ask ye do the same for me. Call me when ye get to… wait. Just realized, I don’t even know where yer off to, little birdie.”
“Mount Fillai. It’s in the Appleachians. There’s something in the valley there I need to find. I don’t know what it is yet, but that’s where I’m going.”
>”Ah, ye, I think I know where that is. Rich Valley, I think they call it. Bloody massive plantation, biggest supplier of lumber in the whole of the country. Fruits and vegetables, too.”
>Rich Valley
>Tree slaves and cutting machines…
>”Well, when ye get there, gimme a call on the mobile ‘ere, I’ll answer any time o’ day.”
“I’ll be sure to call you right after I call the convent. Thank you so much for the ride.”
>Hoisting your saddlebags over your back, letting them sag and rest against your clothed flanks, you nod one last time at Brit before turning back towards the train station
>It seems to beckon you forth, this fallen white pillar buried into the corner of the earth
>You’ll enter with a crowd of other ponies, ponies just like you, ponies trying to find someplace else to go
>You’ll make a purchase, exchanging money for a ticket, the first you’ll have ever made in your life
>You’ll board that train, and from that gaping portcullis you’ll strike out again, into the wind, like a speeding bullet down the mountain and into the unknown
>And from there… who knows?
>Mater Solis knows
>She knows you will find what you’re looking for
>But now you know two things for certain that you didn’t know before
>One, that the place you venture towards is named Rich Valley, and it’s a monument to agriculture
>Two, and more presently germane, you know the time of day
>Both courtesy of a friend you never thought you’d make
>You look back one final time at that unicorn, standing there and watching you, sad for his past and hopeful for his future
>A smile, and unreadable eyes
>”Goodbye, Twilight Sparkle.”
“Celestia be with you, Brittle Bong.”

*****

>It’s been two hours
>Two of the longest hours of your life
>And that’s saying something, all things considered
>When you factor in all the Solar events you’ve partaken in, full days of reciting text verbatim and studying the auspices of wax drops and shadow gradients, this could be a stroll through the garden for all its troubles
>Not to mention all the occasions during which you’ve lain awake anxiously, mentally preparing yourself for examinations the following morning; arithmetic, history, both religious and secular, the arts, the natural world
>Ticking away at boxes with the quill of the mind
>Tick, tick, tick…
>It isn’t that you didn’t enjoy your studies then; in fact, quite the contrary is true
>But… well, ruminating on it now, you realize that even this brief experience so far beyond the walls of the convent has broadened your perspective substantially
>You’re already molding to that golden standard of the secular pony that the Sisters Solaris so frequently warned you about
>Impatient, impertinent, inattentive…
>No, it isn’t so
>You can at least attribute your lack of concentration on meditation in this moment to the constant clamoring about you, ponies of all manner of tongues and temperaments moving and speaking and interrupting the flow of your psyche
>Every few minutes, somepony even addresses you directly, asking in some fashion or other why you’re blindfolded in the middle of a train station
>At which point you must calmly explain to that pony, for what seems like the hundredth time, that you are attempting to meditate, it being the proper time of day to observe the Syncresis within
>You can almost feel, in this partial darkness, mauve blindfold gripping against your open eyes, showing through taut fabrics vague directions of movement and the rectangular presence of the bench opposite you, yes you can almost FEEL their gazes locked on you, confused asides, worried, fearful, disgusted even
>These ponies are disgusted by the mere action of performing those duties necessary to serving the Goddess…
>Blasphemy! Cold, silent blasphemy
>Based on pure assumption, of course, since you can’t actually see those aside glances
>Again, only a shadow of a sensation…
>Get a grip, Twilight
>Sighing, you figure that this meditative cycle, which you’ve been repeating from the beginning over and over for nearly thirty minutes now, will have to come to an early conclusion
>Mater Solis will surely forgive this small infraction of ritual if you supplant yourself to Her tonight
>Tenderly, you remove the blindfold, folding and tucking it away into a special inside pocket of your saddlebag
>Once again, you are subject to your surroundings, and by consequence your situation
>Your hindquarters are planted firmly on a hard white plastic bench, the seat curved to accommodate your form
>It’s one of several lined up in a space located underneath an overhang, brightly lit from above by long, harsh artificial ceiling lamps
>On your left, odd drawings, real images spliced with abstract icons, advertise products and scenic locations in multiple languages
>To the right, the ebony linoleum tile floor stretches out a few dozen meters, past the row of light-decorated pillars holding up the second level above you, onwards to the nearest train platform
>From here, you can glimpse the solid yellow line wrapping the edge of the platform, which drops off into a trench of wires and magnetic mechanisms
>That line, you muse, must be the only design choice in this station that isn’t in monochrome, black and white
>Though, you can’t exactly claim superior taste; most of the interior design in the convent is the same as its outside: unpainted stone, various shades of grey and tan
>You jump slightly as you catch in the corner of your eye the sable sheen of a polished rifle-gun descending a protruding set of stairs
>This one is not like those swiveling terrors you encountered at the checkpoint; it’s strapped firmly in place to the flank of its owner, and seems to be hoofheld in design
>You’re surprised to discover that overt weapons are allowed in a place like this, with so many ponies channeling in from beyond the city, a scant few bound to be dangerous in some capacity
>However, the uniform the gun-wielding pony wears, a simple cotton grey jacket on a white collared shirt and silver buttons, with matching grey flat-cap, tells you that this one might be a soldier, hence special permissions
>Sure enough, a flock of ponies wearing identical uniforms follows down the stairs a few moments later, chattering amongst themselves
>Are they going to war? Returning?
>You can’t be certain, but if what you’ve heard about the scale of horrors possible in the deadly conflict out west is true, they wouldn’t be smiling and joking if they were coming back
>New recruits, then, off to fight, perhaps even to die, in service of their “glorious” country
>You shouldn’t snidely disparage such tragic waste of life; Mater abhors such entitlement and refuge in cynicism
>But neither you nor any Sister of Solemnity holds allegiance to the nations of ponykind
>Your nation is the promised Kingdom of the Sun, your holy land the Mother’s Garden
>When you are to die, it shall be as you lived, in service to that ideal alone
>Before she was a prophetess, Celestia’s kingdom was fabled in its magnificence, yet it, along with she, lacked patience or the recognition of privilege
>Their privilege was in the accommodations provided to them by the Makers, stern but fair instructors in their ancient arts of working all manner of elements
>Their impatience was spearheaded by Celestia herself, and only through the light of Mater Solis was she able to quell the hubris that brought her reign to an end
>She did not win her kingdom back through conquest and warmongering, but through acceptance and faith
>And before she vanished into the Cave of Wisdom, when the Prophecy of the Prophetess was at last fulfilled, she spoke those everlasting words that would resonate through the ages, through books and tongue and the moral foundations of these lands
>”In death, I live. In darkness, I perceive. By the Truth, I abide. As I descend, the world ascends about me. I am bound, and you are free. Sow the six seeds, and in time, my kingdom shall be yours to behold.”
>The six seeds
>What precisely Celestia meant by this epithet puzzled the faith for centuries to come
>Was she referring to her six Solarian acolytes, those apostles who swore their lives to the propagation of her teachings far and wide in Old Equestria until the end of their days?
>Or, perhaps, the six Unified Kings, or their respective kingdoms?
>Did the Eight Absolute Truths, minus the two spoken through the Prima Cabal in the first channeling of Sight rather than from the lips of Celestia herself, have anything to do with it?
>Or, and this is but a hunch…
>Truth, will, light, Syncresis, humility, Sight
>Six tenets from the Eleventh Book of the Sun, categorized as the binding phrases which encompass in their unique forms all which is and shall ever be Mater Solis’ greatness
>She speaks Truth, Her will is golden, and Her light is cast upon all manner of creatures, great and small, wicked and generous
>She shares Herself with the nuclei of her presence, Her cells, the ponies within
>All of these contribute to the ideal of humility, that a devout pony should recognize these divine aspects and not deign to rise to Her limit
>And, finally, only through Sight can all of these aspects be revealed to the faithful; She would be but a great light otherwise, Her words falling in terrific wavelengths on blind eyes
>Celestia’s kingdom lacked all of these qualities when she was but a monarch, filled with hubris and contempt against the Makers for having what she did not
>Now, in the kingdom of the heavens, she awaits the faithful and the just, and her light is all-redeeming
“Hmm…”
>Now THAT’S what you call introspection and meditative insight
>Perhaps the mere act of attempting to isolate your senses with a blindfold was what distracted you in the first place
>Whatever the case, your present situation isn’t looking much brighter
>For some reason, you had assumed when you entered the train station that there would simply be a train waiting to carry you off immediately after purchasing your ticket
>Now, it seems like a rather foolish and self-centered thing to believe, but then it made perfect sense
>What you were treated with instead was a long queue for the ticket booth, a bag inspection, a “biometric scan”, and presently an hours-long wait in the wings for your train to even arrive
>But, at least, you think your wait is almost over
>This is abruptly confirmed for you by a voice without an owner, sounding through the air to address everypony in the waiting area
>”All boarders: the time is now 2:45 PM. The 3:00 East-Southeast Express for Horseshoe Bay is ahead of schedule and will arrive in station shortly. Please gather your belongings and prepare to present your documents and ticket to onboard attendants. Thank you.”
>The first time that happened, you nearly jumped out of your seat and screamed
>Now, you’re somewhat used to it
>If you had to guess, you’d say it’s coming from those boxy installations with bellbox-like grated hemispherical protrusions from their fronts
>Live audio, filtered through a broadcast system and transmitted to entire rooms
>This technology fascinates you for some reason, despite the fact that it so clearly pales in comparison to the maglev railing on central display
>Something new, you suppose
>Regardless, that’s very good news
>One of the desk clerks, a rather tall mare with an eggshell-white coat and pouty, high-society lips informed you that the time of transit by train from Mons Canteria to the station in Rich Valley, counting intermittent stops, would be around four hours
>At this rate, the train should be off before 3:30 (you’re beginning to get the hang of counting time with intervals between hours, seeing as how you’re constantly admiring your new watch) and you should arrive at your ultimate destination at 7:30
>You begin to formulate a mental checklist, twisting your muzzle from side to side in motions you’ve found stimulating to analytical thought
>First, upon arriving at Rich Valley, you should locate a place to stay for the night
>This could be a simple task or an arduous one, depending on your luck and your instinct for gleaning information
>Call the Matron and Brit, one after another, to let each know that you’re safe
>Get situated, spend the night, wake up refreshed
>After that… well, you’ll just have to play it by ear
>Hopefully you can find a reliable map of the location someplace, then it’s on to scouting out the object of your travel
>You’re not sure if that object is someone, something, or somewhere, but in some capacity Rich Valley holds the key to satisfying what was laid out in your epiphany
>If it were easy to find, it wouldn’t be an adventure, now would it?
>On the other hoof, the angel would not have been so intentionally vague if you were expected to weed out an impossibly obscure conclusion to all of this
>Laying out the logistics of your voyage in this manner definitely takes away from its spiritual essence, in some small way, but it’s becoming more and more necessary as time passes
>Time…
>You glance at your watch, which reads 2:47
>A squealing sound goes out across the rest of the cacophony, something high-pitched and droning
>It bounces off the immensely high curved glass ceiling of the station, between rafters and walls and tracks, and seems to maintain a focal point right into your eardrums
>It’s the sound of a train entering a station, its undercarriage sliding smoothly against the steel rails just outside
>You’ve heard it already twice before, but this one is different
>It… signals something, you suppose
>This is your train, the vehicle that will carry you on your way towards your purpose
>As the other ponies around you begin shuffling, standing, grabbing their baggage and proceeding up the stairs as instructed, you follow suit
>At the top of these stairs, you turn right to follow the crowd over the long, wide, white-tiled bridge stretching across the seven parallel sets of tracks and the boarding platforms between them
>A glass roof bows over the length of the bridge so that… well, why IS it there, exactly?
>So much excess, so many design choices that seem unfathomably wasteful
>Is it NECESSARY to have this many platforms when there seem to never be more than two or three trains in the station at a time?
>Sheer decadence, and refuge in luxury, all of it
>Looking to your right now, towards that great gaping maw filled with sunlight, the mouth to the station’s throat, out into ill-defined expanses and horizon-cutting structures, you at last see the source of the screeching
>A white rod with slanted black squares lining its flanks like rivets, a conjoinment of four shorter segments, about a seventy-five meters long in total, comes screaming into station from the outside
>Horns adorn its top, little bumps evenly spaced on either side, and on bottom its edges curve down and around the underside of the tracks to facilitate the magnetic levitation at high speeds
>It slides beneath you slowly, now even more slowly, now coming to a near-full stop as it brakes into its destination
>Descending another adjacent set of stairs, you pass a signpost reading “Platform 5” in bright bold lettering
>This is it, all right
>As soon as the current passengers have unloaded, you can show your binder to the ponies onboard and find a seat
>You hurriedly step along the tile floor towards the now-stopped maglev train, waiting for the automatic doors to swing inwards and for the multitude to pour out
>Other ponies have crowded around you in the same space, probably thinking the same thing
>Everypony seems to be in a rush, and you can partly understand why
>For some of these ponies, this sort of experience is routine, far from once in a lifetime
>Everything you see, from the lavishness of the décor to the marvels of engineering in plain sight all around to the efficiency of the whole process, corralling and managing all these passengers at once, fascinates you
>They look listless, tired even, waiting to get on and get out of here
>”Clear a path! Everypony, clear a path, please!”
>You turn your head to try and locate the source of the voice emanating from behind you, but as soon as you do, somepony bumps into you in an effort to make room
>You’re squeezed between several now-curious-looking ponies, all gazing at something you can’t see from this angle
>Out of the corner of your vision materialize five grey jackets and caps, five long sleek barrels tied about-flank
>You gasp audibly, recognizing the troop of soldiers you saw earlier, who are presently marching through the trench of ponies made especially for them
>They cross the terminal in an orderly line, wrapping around the front edge of the crowd and finally taking their places before the door on the back (now the front, you suppose; they’re seemingly interchangeable) car of the train
>”Stand back, please! Do not cross the platform line!”
>The first soldier you saw earlier, a yellow earth stallion, barks out commands to the crowd, which you happily oblige
>A white flash, reminiscent of lightning, catches you off guard
>You turn again to see where it came from, but find yourself face to face with several ponies wielding strange black boxy objects with glass lenses protruding from their centers
>Another flash, definitely emanating from one of the objects, sends you reeling, spots blurring your vision momentarily
“Hey! Wh-what did you just do to me?”
>The pony who made the flash peers out from behind his box, an annoyed expression matting his face
>”Move, filly! Let me in, I need a better shot!”
>A better shot?
>So these are… weapons?!
>What just happened to you?
>You’re dizzy
>Ponies moving all around you, shifting positions, the black boxes held high above heads on shoulder-mounted lever devices
>Flashes, stomping of hooves, jostling you, disorienting you
>From what you can tell, the doors of the train have opened, and the three compartments down the line are emptying out their passengers
>But this one, nearest to you and this crowd, remains unchanged in its capacity
>Nopony has entered or exited its open door
>The bright flashes of these boxes seem to be focused on that vacant entrance, however; pegasi ponies are even lifting themselves higher off the ground to get better direct angles at it
“What’s happening? What’s going on?”
>The faint question was directed at nopony in particular, but the mare in front of you turns around what amount she’s able, drawing your eye
>”It’s the Chancellor! He’s coming out soon, I think! Oh, this is so exciting! I didn’t know he was taking a normal passenger train, either! He’s just like you or me, like that.”
“Um… forgive me for asking, but… the Chancellor?”
>The mare simply cocks her eyebrow and smirks, as though she thinks you’re in on some joke
>”Seriously? THE Chancellor. Chancellor Neighsay?”
>This leaves you with even more questions
>That name sounds somewhat familiar, but you can’t be certain…
“Chancellor… Neighsay?”
>Now she lets out a deliberate groan and knocks her hoof against her forehead
>”Sun and stars, are you some kind of foreigner? Chancellor Neighsay, Speaker of the Senatori. He’s here, now, he’s about to come out of there! Why do you think there are so many guards?”
>Oh, now you’re beginning to get the picture
>And, as it happens, from this angle you can better see the backsides of some of the strange black boxes carried by these rather rude new ponies, onto some of which are projected display feeds, showing what is in front of them
>All of them are resplendent in buttons, switches, turndials
>If your intuition is correct, these are cameras, devices which can capture images of what lies in front of them at the press of a button
>Before the New Maker’s Handbook, cameras were reliant on photographic plates and celluloid film, inventions given directly to ponykind by the Makers in the time of Celestia, but now you suspect the technology is entirely digital in format
>Therefore, these are not weapons; your heartrate slows dramatically at this revelation
>Chancellor Neighsay of the Senatori… somepony important enough to have a full passenger train car devoted to himself as well as a private escort of military personnel
>You have a vague understanding of the role of the Senatori and the Chancellor in their respective roles in the Canterian government, but you aren’t learned enough on that topic to make any judgments
>For now, you can only watch and wait as the crowd around you steadily grows and closes in on the open sliding door, the anticipation reaching a boiling point among the photographers, the passersby, the waiters for boarding and those who have just stepped out of their own cars, further up the track
>That anticipation has gripped you as well, in a smaller sense
>You lean in…
>And see at last a white hoof cross the threshold, stepping past the doorframe and onto the short bridge extending onto the platform
>With another step, the full figure of the owner of that hoof comes into view, and before you can even register that figure in its entirety your field of vision is flooded by flashing lights from every angle
>The clicks of falling shutters assault your ears, as does a flurry of shouted questions from ponies with black, felt-tipped rods, aimed like knives towards the Chancellor
>”Chancellor Neighsay! What was the front like in Unicronia?”
>”Chancellor Neighsay! Do you have any comment on the rumors that the Pegasus Armistice has access to nuclear technology at this time?”
>”Chancellor, your approval ratings have been up in the last few months. Would you attribute that to the success of publicity stunts like these, riding on passenger trains rather than private jets?”
>”Chancellor Neighsay, Horse’s Mouth Magazine. Are the rumors about you and Madame Fleur de Lis really true?”
>Stuffed between two large ponies, you can somewhat see through the layers of crowd ahead of you in the midst of this eruption of activity
>The Chancellor, a rather tall white unicorn stallion with black glossy combed-back hair and a strip of facial hair down his chin, wears an elaborately pleated burgundy cloak, clasped at the middle by a golden medallion and draped around his flanks almost down the ground
>The garment would almost remind you of your prayer robes back home, if it weren’t so much more complex in its arrangement and dotted with pins, stripes, seams, and a silver sash across the right shoulder
>Surrounded by his entourage, he appears unbothered by the barrage of questions aimed at him, marching straight forward and giving the occasional aside smirk or wave to onlookers
>As he passes through another crack in the mob, directly in front of you, you can see the five soldiers marching along with him, two at each side and one behind
>But what really catches your eye is a seventh figure, a dark… thing, trailing behind and to his left like a shadow
>You’re not really certain what you’re looking at
>From this vantage point, you can at least tell that it’s a pony, but the way it moves is unnatural, uncanny even; it almost GLIDES along the tiled floor with every step, skating in slow, grim tempos
>To call it a shadow was an apt description, for it’s covered head to hoof in a skintight black bodysuit, broken up by pinkish-red diamonds and zigzagging arrow marks
>Unlike any fabric you’ve ever seen, the bodysuit appears to absorb every trace of light that touches it, leaving no sheen or hint of texture to be seen, only a deep void in the shape of an animated body
>Darkness layered upon darkness, cold and monstrous
>You cannot see its face, though you imagine that it, too, is masked in impermeable jet
>It stays close to the Chancellor as though protecting him alongside the soldiers, but at no point in your observation of the thing do you see any weapons on its person, no guns, no swords, nothing
>In an instant, you feel the sudden urge to prostrate yourself and pray fervently, even here in the midst of this chaos, for the irrational parts of your mind are screaming for salvation, informing you that what you now lay eyes upon is a beast from the Depths, an abomination
>Deep dark, dark on dark, moving and encircling in a rapturous whirlpool
>You’re short on breath from all the squeezing, and the heat generated by this crowd is beginning to affect you
>If you could just sidle your way out, board the train and be on your way…
>The Chancellor and his entourage pass beneath the overhead bridge crossing the tracks, their path towards the staircase straight and to the point
>You realize that this is your chance, planting your hooves firmly on the spot as the crowd follows Neighsay
>They jostle you a bit more, but eventually they’ve moved on and left you behind
>You hastily reposition yourself, reaching into your saddlebag and producing your papers with shaking legs
>Before, your motivation to board this train was your ultimate destination of finding Truth; now, all you can think about is putting as much distance between you and that shadow pony as physically possible
>No; calm down, Twilight
>Close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in rhythm, utter the Litany of Protection, find solace in that light above…
>Opening your eyes again, you feel refreshed and much calmer
>You check the time: 2:55
>Still, however, there’s a lingering feeling of uneasiness, a lightheadedness that often comes before an impending thunderstorm
>Danger from above, you tell yourself
>Tilting your head slightly up, you see the overhead bridge, protracted and lacking any foundational support across all seven tracks, casting a faint shadow from five meters over the heads of the Chancellor and his posse, concealing them from the diffused sunlight streaming in from the glass ceiling high above
>Behind the railing, from this angle, you can see rather vaguely a light green pony peering over the opposite edge of the bridge, watching and waiting
>Another admirer of the Chancellor’s, most likely
>But, then again, this pony isn’t with the rest on the bridge, who are all positioning themselves by the top of the stairs to intercept him when he comes up
>No, this one is hovering directly overhead, steady and poised, as though ready to…
>Pounce
>In a split second, the pony is gone, vanished from their vantage point, replaced by a flying green and red blur hurtling over the railing of the bridge, down into the fray, descending on the crowd
>A glint catches your eye, the tip of something sharp, but you can hardly react to it because what’s going on what’s happening no no no what is this-
>Screaming, first from one voice, then joined by a chorus
>Against all notions of sanity, you gallop towards the event rather than away, into the yelling and the moving back and the tripping and tumbling
>From what you can make out, there’s a scuffle happening at the center of the arrangement, just below the bridge
>The red and green pony lashes out first, striking a soldier before he can draw a melee weapon from his combat boot
>A red mist sprays out from his neck, and it takes every fiber of your being not to pass out instantly at the sight
>No, breathe, remember the breathing techniques that the Matron taught you, don’t panic don’t panic just watch and don’t pass out or else YOU might be-
>The mist dissipates in the air, but the condensed droplets splatter across the ground and into the matted, tense coats of the nearest ponies, and the cut soldier falls to the ground
>A vicious face comes into view, that of the green pony with a tied-back orange-red mane, bunched into queer thickets of hair
>The mouth on that face makes a noise, a scream or an intonation or maybe even a sentence, but you’re too scared to know the difference
>Turning back around, the green pony, a mare, charges at the Chancellor, knife in hoof, the other four soldiers still fumbling for the firearms tied to their flanks
>Knifepoint, hurtling through space, terminal velocity, a sharp and swirling reflection of a multicolored terrified mass, each face contorted into a different shade of surprise, grief, shock, horror, or other similar emotions
>You can’t see your own, because your mind is transfixed on this violent dance, your eyes pinpoints pricking into oblivion
>Bloodbloodbloodbloodblood
>Blood everywhere, in the air, on the floor, obscuring your view, washing into the tiles and coats and faces
>Blood in waves and droplets and sinusoidal curves and clawing spikes
>But… not the Chancellor’s blood
>You blink rapidly, your brain taking desperate leaps to attempt to catch up with what just transpired
>Accompanying the sound of a scream, the attempted assassin’s mouth is contorted cruelly, a show of immeasurable pain
>She’s lying on the ground now, front legs pressed into her barrel, back legs outstretched, knife clattering against the floor far away
>The flexor tendons of both her back legs have been neatly severed, arteries spraying and seeping more syrupy red liquid than you can bear to look at
>So you avert your gaze elsewhere, first to the visage of the Chancellor, frozen in fear and apprehension, next to the figure standing directly behind the would-be assassin, arrow-shaped knife in hoof
>No, knife in hoof wouldn’t be precisely accurate, more like knife IS hoof, for as soon as you glimpse that bloody tip it seemingly retracts into the pitch black heel from whence it came
>The shadow pony stands tall over its victim, having saved its… master, you imagine? Employer?
>Its Chancellor, nonetheless
>The assassin’s screams turn to cries, then moans, then futile mumbling and a defiant kick
>Through all of this, the shadow pony remains silent, unmoving, simply watching
>”Longshot, Metal Jacket, get the Chancellor out of here! Blank, get a damn medic for the private, he’s bleeding all over the place! His damn carotid’s severed, hurry, damnit!”
>The soldier stallion barking out orders leans down and, producing two pairs of metal loops joined by a chain, restrains the snarling assassin from attacking anypony else
>The rest do as told, one speaking clearly into a hoofheld radio of some kind, the other two gripping the Chancellor in hoof on either side and dashing down the platform, up the stairs, and out of sight
>The pink-patterned shadow pony starts with a single step to follow the Chancellor’s getaway before…
>It turns, front leg raised, back stretched, spotless of bloodstains
>It turns its head to face YOU
>You, whose posture hasn’t changed since you first saw blood spilled, your expression still petrified into a soundless scream, eyes microscopic dots on white convexities
>At last, that face is revealed to you: black as the darkest night, blacker even, somehow, than the rest of the outfit, or so it would seem to you
>There are no eyes, no mouth, no defining features at all on that mask, but for more of the same pink patchwork patterns arcing here and there, below the cheeks, above the brow, down the muzzle, a double zigzag about the throat like a noose
>But even though you can’t see the thing’s eyes behind that dreadful veil, there exists no doubt in your mind that it is staring straight through yours, deep into your mind, into your soul, blacking out all hope
>Yes, it’s looking at YOU, nopony else
>You can’t move, speak, or react in any form; all you can do is match its stare and accept whatever fate it has in store for you
>You can’t even close your eyes…
>It’s coming… and-
>
>Nothing
>The staredown ends as suddenly as it began, as the shadow pony swerves back around to glide-bounce back towards the absconding Chancellor and the soldiers carrying him
>Barely three seconds passed, yet it seemed like an eternity
>A few moments later, they’re all gone, save for the restrained assassin on the floor and the pegasus soldier anxiously hovering over her
>Gone; it’s gone
“Guhhhhh!”
>All the air you’d been holding in evacuates your lungs at once, almost uncontrollably so, and you begin to heave and wheeze
>You fear you might vomit on the already crimson-stained tile floor, but thankfully nothing comes out
>The remaining ponies around you, those who didn’t run away, have settled down into a steady murmur
>They, like you, are trying to figure out what just happened right in front of them, that which they could not reconcile quickly enough to comprehend
>In a word, they look confounded
>As are you, to put it lightly
>You just witnessed your first major act of violence, and an attempted political killing at that
>You haven’t even left the TRAIN STATION, for Celestia’s sake!
>Is the outside world truly so unforgiving, so reckless in its danger?
>You manage to gather enough energy to lift your shaking left foreleg off the ground to check the time
>2:56
>All of that, in less than one minute
>The attempt, the panic, the injured soldier, running into the fray, the Chancellor backing away, tripping over his cloak, the cut tendons, foiling the plan, the stare, and the lasting confusion that followed
>One minute was all it took for your resolve to be shaken to its foundations
>For more than a mere moment, you consider turning right back around and walking back to the convent
>You don’t care how long that would take, for all that matters in your mind right now is a primitive appeal to safety
>But… you are not primitive
>You’re a Sister of Solemnity, a Missionary of the Faith, a seer of Truth and a prospective Matron
>As impossible as all that would have seemed just a few short weeks ago, it is what now defines you
>The Matron believes that you’re capable of fulfilling this task, and you will not let her down in that regard
>You back away gently, relieved that at the very least there are no bloodstains on you or your cloak
>Breathe in, breathe out, reduce the beating of your heart, don’t allow that fear to penetrate your soul
>Whispering under your breath these uplifting litanies, warding off the evils you’ve witnessed here, it feels as though nothing or nopony can halt your endeavors
>At best, they might only succeed in slowing you down
>You’ve no doubt that this episode will cause some delays in the train schedule, but in time you’ll be off, far away, to whatever comes to you
>Almost immediately, that suspicion is confirmed over the communications system, that same muffled electronic-scarred voice transmitting out another warning
>”Attention all passengers. Please remain calm. The situation on Platform Five is being resolved, and boarding for the 3:00 Express eastbound for Horseshoe Bay will be momentarily delayed until the situation has been properly assessed and proper safety protocols have been enacted. Thank you for your patience, and once again, please remain calm. Thank you.”
>The voice, uncanny in its measured feminine cadence as it is, reassures you nonetheless
>So much for “ahead of schedule”, however
>The marvel and whimsy of this city, this world, that you had previously inwardly extolled, has now given way to an underlying cynicism, not necessarily fear, just a… darkness
>It was there before this bloody experience, to be sure, so it isn’t simply frayed nerves
>You know you should feel impressed and astounded that a train could carry you so far in so little time, but now you’re wishing you could simply close your eyes, tap your hooves on the ground a few times, and open them again to find yourself in Rich Valley already
>It’s wrong, unbearably wrong, to think this way, to be a bastion championing the necessity of Maker technology to your sisters and to crumble so absolutely when given the chance to get used to a world that uses it, but you can’t help it
>It’s infecting you already, that “golden standard”, in a deeper sense
>3:00
>The assassin is being hauled away, the blood cleaned up by hurried janitors in pristine white clothes, head to hoof
>After a time, all evidence of the incident has been washed away; soldiers, shadows, stains
>How many more invisible wounds are out there now, erased from history?
>How blind are you and those around you to injustice and chaos?
>You’re across the platform now, watching, waiting, impatient and grim
>It will be better, you tell yourself
>Beyond all this, it will be better

******

>High
>You feel… high
>In spite of everything, in spite of what just occurred and what that occurrence implies, in spite of the resultant mayhem and questioning and Celestia knows what will come once you’ve arrived, you’re… thrilled
>It’s euphoric, this feeling, better than any drug you’ve ever taken
>You’ve heard before that impending death releases more adrenaline into the pony body than it can possibly handle, an effect of nature meant for impossibly quick acts of self-preservation
>A fight-or-flight response, a natural endurance and strength and processing enhancer
>And now, in the aftermath, dopamine is flooding your brain, injected directly into your thoughts and feelings
>All that vulnerability and cowardly fear, the anticipation of your own demise, has been thoroughly counterbalanced by a sense of invincibility
>You’re high as a kite, sailing in the clouds like a pegasus adrift, your heart pounding like a dog in heat
>It’s over, isn’t it? You ask yourself over and over again, waiting for another fell creature with a blade and a vengeance to try and get the drop on you
>If it happened right now, you’d be ready, oh yes, you actually WANT it to happen now, for surely this time you’d see it coming and sweep them by the legs, disarm them yourself, and if the public were watching you’d see in the papers that your approval ratings would skyrocket
>Not, of course, that they won’t already, and HAVEN’T already; the mere attempt is certain to garner support
>You’ve been stirred, unflappable, unscathed, unencumbered by feelings of doubt or apprehension
>There’s a feeling in your heart like you can do no wrong in this moment
>You are Shetland Neighsay, Chancellor of the Senatori, the power of powers in this greatest of powers on earth
>Canterium is your domain, your nation, your people, and above all, you want it to prosper
>That’s the truth, and nothing but the truth, though your enemies would venture to suggest otherwise
>They’d have it that you’re a profiteer, a scoundrel, a war-griffin
>They want the public to believe that you’re pouring far too much of the state budget into this war, devoting too many resources and lives and time to a threat that is no threat at all
>For a time, you even believed them
>No longer
>Your beating heart subsides, your narrowed eyes regain focus, your ears perk up to attention, and you’re once again aware of your surroundings
>You’re whizzing upward on the sky-lift, faster and faster inbound to the gates of the summit platform high above the train station
>Between the long, dark vertical beams shooting high like prison bars in this cell wide enough to fit three cars side-to-side, through the spotlessly transparent glass panes, the lower city reaches desperately into the heavens, buildings stacked upon buildings, roads upon roads, vying for the altitudes of the upper platforms it cannot hope to match
>It reminds you of fingers sifting through strips of fabric, or knife-points jutting out above some massive grate complex, verticals and horizontals, level upon level, crumbling and reassembling
>It’s a view that’s all too familiar to you, repainted over and over again in your sharp memory, going up and down and up again, down for the people, up for the politics
>Each time, new thoughts and feelings are associated with the conglomerate of existing ones, associated with this sight, and so now when you look out it reminds you of all these trips at once, little bit of this one and that one
>And now… well, you can add whatever emotion they’d call it that you’re feeling right now to that great compendium
>These damned two greycoats still flank you on either side as you ascend, insistent that they’re there for your protection
>One places his hoof to his ear and nods down briefly, no doubt listening in on the endless mic chatter proceeding the attempt on your life, new safety measures and increased protection, blah blah blah
>Behind you, your implacable bodyguard remains, your one true source of protection, almost invisible against the cold black face of the mountain rushing past on the anterior
>In truth, though you hadn’t seen her capabilities until this afternoon, having thankfully never before required them, only having heard these things secondhand from the Magister who sold her services to you, you’d placed your trust in her to defend you and she’d satisfied remarkably
>While your military escort was quite literally shaking in their combat boots, fumbling with the straps on their guns while their comrade was having his throat slit open and their Chancellor charged at by a knife-brandishing lunatic, she did for you exactly what you paid for
>She protected
>Heartrate’s down now to a reasonable pace, good, and a few short minutes later you’re at the peak of this great mountain, the center of the world in prestige and, incidentally, geography
>The greycoats share a glance for a moment; one mumbles something into the other’s ear, and that other turns to face you as the collapsing doors on the lift fold to let you pass
>”Mr. Chancellor, I’ve been notified that we should escort you to a safe site until we’re certain there are no more, uh, potential threats. We can escort you as far as Skylane Boulevard, and after that there’ll be another team that we can trade you off to and-“
“That… won’t be necessary, private. I have some important business lined up for this afternoon, and I simply cannot afford to be late in arriving at Newcastle.”
>The earth stallion’s face contorts into a baffled expression
>”Um, sir? With all due respect, we can’t let you go to the Senatori now. We’ve been instructed to not even let you go to your penthouse, or anyplace that a potential threat might be waiting for you. We need to go to the safehouse, now.”
>You smirk, placing a hoof on the young greenhorn’s wither
“I don’t doubt that you have my best interests at heart, private. I’m sure your superiors will give you quite the commendation for doing as told in this matter of, how should we say, UTMOST national emergency. But I know a lone wolf when I see one. There is no conspiracy on my life, no contingency plan B in case that first attempt, FAILSAFE as it was, went awry. And between you and me…”
>You lean in close, a gesture which invariably causes ponies to let down their guards, in your experience
“A safehouse would be the first place a conspirator would think to drive me towards, you know, if this really were all some massive setup.”
>”I don’t… they don’t know where-“
“This one might. Oh yes, I’m certain they know my every move now, they’re forecasting my actions step by step. They know where that safehouse is because I know where it is through my own contacts, and I’m the very last pony who’s meant to know that location. No, surely it’s safer there than, say, a meeting room at Newcastle, immediately following a failed attempt on my life. Surely, private, it wouldn’t be better to simply allow me to go about my business? In the eyes of your superiors, that is. Who are, of course, my employees.”
>At that, the greycoat’s mauve face goes a deathly shade of white
>Exactly the reaction you were hoping for
>”I s-s-suppose we could escort you to N-Newcastle, sir. Along with y-your aide.”
>You right yourself, taking on a more politely friendly posture and expression
“My aide is all the escort I’ll be needing. Thank you for your service thus far, private…?”
>”L-Longshot, sir! Private Longshot.”
“Longshot. And Metal Jacket, was it? Yes, I’m certain that the Minister of War will be delighted to know that you served me to the fullest extent of my desire, no more, no less. I expect to see your names in the commendatories soon, gentlecolts!”
>With that, you step out of the sky-lift, leaving the two stallions staring into nothing as the gates shut behind you, bar to glass to bar, and  promptly shoots back down to earth
>Here you are at last, after a full month away in that hellhole of a city
>Unicronia had its charms, once, when it wasn’t a gutted shell of bare concrete frames massed out against the wind and the onslaught of the warfront
>Nicer abodes prevailed to the east, a more inhabitable part of town, but that part was inaccessible outside of summits with the constant surveillance of war press, flocks of pegasi making certain you didn’t go back on your promise to “contribute” to the cause by slinking away into the politicians’ district
>How on earth did they expect you to contribute? Moral support? A firm hoofshake to every good colt out there fighting the good fight against those rad-addled tech cultists calling themselves the heirs to Exsilia?
>But even if there were no War in the West, even if you’d visited Unicronia at peak opulence, you know you’d still have been disappointed
>The unicorns there are proud in the same way that ants are proud of their anthill, singing songs of their old forgotten rebellions, futile kicks against Canterium’s generosity
>You chuckle softly as you recall the way the assassin kicked and squirmed at you, feral to the end
>That was the thanks you got for going out there for a glorified publicity stunt, risking your neck and your usefulness to this nation; as soon as you step out of the train car, somepony tries to murder you
>So much for endearing yourself to the commoners
>From the lift to Newcastle Kabardian is all of a fifteen-minute brisk walk, and in that time you find yourself admiring so many of the little aspects of the environment you always took for granted
>Trails of hanging flowers, garlands colorful and plump from expensive hormone alterations, drape down along the purposefully antique sidings of the cottage mansions here and there
>Lawns, tenderly managed and watered almost hourly at this altitude with elaborate sprinkler systems, stretch across modest but respectable plots, growing steadily smaller as you approach the central forum
>The homes themselves, great stone buttressed replicas of architectural masterpieces of old, violet checkered nouveau towers suggesting Prench influence, the occasional blocky modernist innovation with waterfalls and other liberal design philosophies, belong chiefly to senators, dignitaries, ambassadors, the rare ascended businesspony here and there, and their consorts
>It’s a city within a city, this summit platform, a layer above all other layers for the elite of Mons Canteria
>At the tail end of this trip, you manage to sight in the not-so-far-off distance, the tip of your own abode, a glassy sheen reflecting the deep blue spring sky at the height of the tallest tower on this platform
>That’s not your destination this time, however
>You were telling the truth when you told that foal of a greycoat that you had far too much important business to conduct to go hiding like a scared little filly in a saferoom
>No, your destination this fine afternoon stands tall across this wide forum, obscured slightly by a multitude of black marble pillars holding nothing but the air up high, lined in rows surrounding a deep red obelisk encircled in flame at its base
>Red on black on pristine white behind it all, that assembly of pyramids atop an ivory circlet, appearing from this angle exactly like its nickname, the “White Crown of the Mons”
>Newcastle Kabardian is its true name, home of the Senatori assembly, about a hundred meters away now
>Named for the richest and most infamous of the Six Unified Kings of Old Equestria, it sits on the same hallowed ground of the first Castle Kabardian, seat of power of the Kings, then the Council, then the Emperors, and finally the Senatori, until it was torn down after the Mons Quake in 808 rendered it sadly irreparable 
>This new palace, a monument to the achievements of the ponies of Canterium the world over, gleams like a jagged pearl on high, scraping the limits of the heavens with its tall triangular towers
>But before you even have the chance to admire that beauty you’ve long taken for granted, between you and the castle yard comes running up a flock of worried faces, some framed in magnificent fashions, others in plain black suit and tie
>The senators in their capes and gowns huddle around you, bleating out banal trivialities like:
>”Thank goodness you’re unharmed! That ruffian will be punished, no doubt?”
>”A sad day to see this fair city spit on the hoof that feeds it. A brave return, indeed, eh Chancellor?”
>”An Exsilist plot, there’s no doubt in my mind about that, harrumph! Thank the sun and stars you’re well, Chancellor. Should… you be out here at this early time, then? Surely…”
>And so on and so on
>Sweet Celestia, how tedious it all is
>The ones in black suits, agents from all manner of agencies, are swimming through the ranks of senators around you, trying in vain to whisk you off to some safe place or another
>That will not happen, not now, not when you’re so close to achieving an end to the plan you devised there, in Unicronia, sleeping on a scratchy old board of a bed while bombs rained down in the yellow distance over black fuming mountains
>No, to achieve that end, there’s only one pony in a black suit you want to see right now, and that pony is thankfully wading through the nervous throng to meet with you, flanked by two operatives of his own
>You catch a glimpse of that dark grey earth pony face, hard and disciplined, with a storied slyness about it, that silver mane, black jacket and—oh, this is a surprise—a RED tie, making him somewhat stand out in the crowd
>Ordinarily, he likes being inconspicuous, as is his very nature, so instantly you’re working out the motivation behind this minor change in fashion
>Before you can come to a decision on that front, he’s standing in front of you, his agents calling for all the rest to move away and go about their own business, for “safety reasons”, of course
“Good afternoon, Black Bar.”
>”Good afternoon, Chancellor. You’ve had a busy day, or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, is ‘busy’ what you specialists call having a knife shoved in your face?”
>”More or less. Won’t you walk with me, Chancellor?”
“My pleasure. I came here for you, you know. We have much to discuss.”
>With the Minister of Intelligence by your side, you walk a few paces, freeing yourself from the huddle of senators encircling you
>When that’s done, you set off down the yard at a leisurely pace, only traveling a few steps before Black Bar stops and turns around
>You follow the direction of his intrigued eye towards… oh yes, you suppose he hasn’t seen her yet
>You should have figured he’d be deeply interested in your newest and closest friend
>”So, this is her, then. My, my. What a fascinating specimen. Does the lady have a name?”
>You lift your muzzle almost imperceptibly, beckoning your bodyguard closer to you and Black Bar
>The slinking shadow, having followed you at a respectable distance all this way, obliges and steps up to be examined
“Black Bar, may I introduce Pink. I believe I mentioned her when I wrote to you from Unicronia.”
>”Yes, of course. A gift from the High Magister, you said.”
“Your memory’s sharper than ever. Yes, though he’d only had her for a few days. Bought her services exclusively as a gift for me, directly from the Laughing Guild or Brotherhood or however it is they style themselves. You know, in the northeast.”
>”The Laughing Cult would be more apt. They make their creations in service of a Laughing God, or so my monitors on their activities out east would suggest. Even still… I’ve never seen a Mouthless Jester in person before, let alone up close.”
“They’re a rare breed. I was uncertain, to say the least, on how exactly she’d be of service to me until about half an hour ago. I’m sure you already know that she was responsible for saving my life at the station.”
>”You presume too much about me, Chancellor. I’m not all-seeing.”
“No, but you are all-knowing, at least as far as I can tell. I’ll ask you not to put up a disguise when speaking to me.”
>”What’s fair is fair. Does she speak?”
“Despite what the name implies, yes, actually. A little bit. But only to me, and only when absolutely necessary. Not much of a conversationalist, this one, and not much of a laugher, either. But that’s alright. The kind Magister didn’t purchase her for me to be my companion in idle chit-chat.”
>”Of course not. Oh, but I can see quite the fine figure under all that black… leather, is it? Are you sure she’s not your companion in… other ways?”
“Now you go too far, Blackie, old colt. Pink, stand down.”
>The pink patchwork-festooned silhouette, made faceless by her featureless mask, does as commanded, gliding along the cool cobblestone to a more comfortable radius
“Dare to make a suggestion like that again, Black Bar, and you’ll be facing her blade just like that imp on the station platform. I happen to know for a fact that it was your agents who conjured up those rumors about that Fleur de Lis and me. I don’t appreciate publicity like that, and I won’t have it happen again.”
>He gives you one of those broad, thin, toothy grins he’s so fond of
>”At this point, no kind of publicity on earth could bring you down from your standing. This attempt on your life will bring the public to your side. Show them that there’s a tangible threat to our nation that needs to be quelled.”
“You’re saying the assassin was an Exsilist?”
>”What she was doesn’t matter. What we make of her to the public is what’s important.”
“If I didn’t know any better, Black Bar, I’d almost suspect that you had a hoof in this somewhere.”
>”Not me, I swear. Although the timing is awfully convenient, I’ll admit that much. Not minutes after word of mouth came up about an assassination at the train station, Chancellor’s status unknown, I was getting calls from ponies I never get calls from. Imperialists from the old families, you know, Blueblood’s ilk, petitioning to bring back the Empire all over again and bring an end to all this ‘senseless violence.’ I’d have liked to see Blueblood’s face when you turned up A-OK after all. Can’t quite go much paler than he already is.”
“Hmph. As though the state would back them in any capacity, much less the army. Their power is in their money, and wealth is the lowest form of power.”
>”What, then, is the greatest?”
“Whatever it is that I have.”
>You’ve reached the obelisk at the center of the grassy square, the two of you staring deeply into the low blue flame which circumscribes its polished granite base
>So little power in those gas emitters, summoning a wall of fire fit only to ward off ants
>You’ve had dreams, fantasies more like, of winning this war and seeing then the flames rocketing high, engulfing the entirety of the fifteen meter-high pillar in a ring of white-hot beauty, a celebration of everything you alone achieved against all adversity
>Every counterbalance, every inch of red tape, you feel like you’re winning this war by yourself on the most important front of them all: the Senatori floor
>You didn’t ask for this position; you were chosen for it in the eyes of all seventy-four senators of seventy-four provinces, and you think you’ve done a pretty damn good job at it thus far
>This excursion hasn’t helped, of course
>Every second you spent in Unicronia in front of cameras, prostituting yourself out to the media to boost your numbers, was another second gained by the tireless efforts of these power-hungry imperialists back home, gradually chiseling away at your own obelisk, one you built through perseverance and through trusting the right ponies at the right times
>And who are those ponies now? Who ARE the ponies you trust?
>After what happened at the train station, you can’t be certain by any means
>And as always, the very last pony you’d ever trust is the one standing right beside you, grinding his teeth in a show of habit, eyes shifting up and down the length of the obelisk, black paintbrush marking out what could be a word, but never was or will be, inscribed on his flank
>He’s good at keeping secrets, your Minister of Intelligence, but unfortunately, that includes secrets from you
>He’s your greatest ally and your most dangerous enemy, and that is precisely why you keep him so close
>”You haven’t told me anything about Unicronia yet. Though it’s understandable if the shock has shaken your memory loose for the time being.”
“Oh, please. Nothing could make me forget the sheer tedium of that place. It was like… living in that grey middle ground, between life and death. Not on the peak, no, that would at least be exhilarating, but THIS, oh Celestia. Miserable. I couldn’t sleep at night for the flak fire over the rocks, I couldn’t breathe for all the smoke, the food was dodgy, the natives were arrogant in the worst kind of way. Council summits, then battle embankments, then summits again, shifting between city and hellhole, back and forth, neither better or worse than the other.”
>”That’s a shame. I’ve heard good things about Unicronians in peacetime. Their yearly Fell Plains Victory Day celebration is supposed to be the biggest lightshow outside of the Northern Lights. Hundreds of thousands of unicorns, channeling their magic into the sky at once, making a rainbow daytime out of the night. Say, did you ever see that white unicorn councilmare, oh, what’s her name. Supposed to be the youngest member of the Unicronian Council ever and all that.”
“Yes, I know who you’re talking about. I did see her. Didn’t find the time for a private encounter, though, you old goat. I know your next question before you do.”
>”You got me.”
“You have an unhealthy obsession with my sex life, Black Bar.”
>”I have a very healthy obsession with information, Chancellor, it’s right there in my job description. I take in, I file away. But I also know how to separate business from pleasures, and this right here is what I would call a tenuously pleasurable experience.”
“Only tenuously? How sad. What about you, then? How has your work been treating you in my absence?”
>”Not too bad, not too bad. Did inquiries on all of the CI sites we’ve been setting up, making sure everyone’s clearance levels match their accessibilities. Pored over a regular mountain of documents over the course of a week, all the specifications and standards of the installations, yadda yadda.”
>Wait a minute…
>Yes, yes!
>This is exactly where you wanted to steer this conversation!
>Cognitio Incognitus, “CI” for short, bearers of the forbidden fruit, that most secretive of recent developments in the world of the Ordo Intelligentia, Minister Black Bar’s domain of operations
>CI is his new favorite pet, from what you understand, comprising a collection of black sites spanning the continent, taking over a multitude of archaeological digs, lost temples, abandoned research facilities, etc., all until now governed by separate crews with separate interests
>Consolidated under CI, these sites are now simultaneously easier for Ordo to handle and more difficult for your own agents to penetrate
>Your predecessors, former Chancellors, received a constant influx of information from the types of peculiarities that these sites produced, but now most of those sources have fallen silent, and you’re left only with the word of Ordo, and consequently that of Black Bar
>And his word is, naturally, worth less than the nonexistent redacted truth that adorns his flank
>The information you desire, and the real reason you’re confiding with Black Bar now, is an explanation for a report you received during your trip to Unicronia, a mere paper slip
>It came through to you on a particularly loud night, you beneath a fluttering grey canopy tent, outside the cacophony of troops hoofing it through mud and hay towards the flak to repel a surprise bombardment
>Explosive lights raged above, magic-imbued M72 Hybrid artillery rounds clashing with the silent, supersonic missiles shot out of an Exsilist silo, somewhere over the blue crags to the west
>Designs from the Unicronian Archives, stolen by the Exsilists after the Summer Raids a few years back and modified to exclude any semblance of magical influence on the missile’s launch or detonation
>They hate magic, those Exsilists, even more so than the most devout of the Celestian Clerici; it offends their Maker gods, or so you’ve heard they tell themselves
>But there, beneath that crackling sheen high overhead, your interest was piqued by that little paper slip delivered out of the darkness
>It had been sent out of an CI site in the Badlands from one of your own agents, who was working undercover there as a low-level inquiry advisor, and who happened to find transport records of large quantities of supercomputer stacks into the site
>At first, you thought nothing of the report, but eventually the significance of that particular site occurred to you
>Before it was managed by Ordo, and Minister Black Bar here, that site was known as the Maker’s Fist, a vast archaeological venture conducted fifty years ago, and the site of the discovery of none other than…
>Drum roll please…
>The New Maker’s Handbook
>That encyclopedia of encyclopedias, the foundation of ponykind’s current level of understanding in every modern field of scientific study
>Why, then, were computers being transported INTO this defunct shell of an archaeological site?
>You have your theories, marebrained as they are
>But you won’t be at ease until you find the truth of this matter, and the information you’re looking for
>And to tickle that information out of Black Bar’s thick, crafty little head, you’ll need an approach that surpasses that craftiness
>Still… this is too easy
>You’re thinking of squeezing him for information about a CI black site, and suddenly he’s yapping away about his affairs with one of the most secretive organizations in the world?
>Play it safe, Shetland old colt… strike from another angle…
“Your CI project has made tremendous strides these last few years, or so I’ve heard. Rounding up all those orphan operations, setting them under one banner, it’s good for the state. Good for us.”
>”Yes, I’d like to think so. Certainly makes paperwork easier when you only have to use one stamp for all the research documents from every black site in Canterium.”
“Hah, I can imagine. But surely not ALL such documents come across your desk personally? A stallion like yourself must know how to delegate.”
>Black Bar laughs
>”For most projects, I know it well. But you of all ponies should know how I pushed for CI in the first place. Is it not fair that I should keep a close watch on it, make sure imperialists and the like don’t get their grubby hooves all over my affairs?”
>And the angle, naturally, presents itself
“What could Senator Blueblood and his posse do with information like that? They haven’t got an original thought between them.”
>”Between you and me, and believe me, this is only a hypothetical, but between you and me the imperialists will do anything and everything to gain power for their cause in the Senatori. They’ve been talking tax breaks, propaganda campaigns, diplomacy with the PAS, anything and everything while you’ve been gone.”
“Diplomacy? Pah. The Pegasus Armistice State and that bullheaded Hurricane cannot be reasoned with. They’re fascists.”
>Your leisurely walk has brought you to the foot of the steps, wide and shining, flanked by statues of distinguished leaders alternating with identical globe-maps
>As you ascend, Black Bar consistently remains a step behind, the natural instinct of sneaks
>You’ve no such instinct, nor any primal fear of an attack from behind, at least not while Pink shadows you as she does
>”Precisely my point. If they’re talking arrangements with the PAS, known and active allies of the Exsilists, who’s to say they won’t stoop to making… say, off-the-books arrangements with the Cult of Exsilium itself?”
>You pause in your tracks, turning to face Black Bar outright
“Treason is a bold accusation, Minister. If you have reasonable claim of suspicion to suggest that the imperialists are using CI secrets as fodder for negotiations with the enemy, then this is not the forum in which to do so. And I dearly hope you have evidence to back it up.”
>”I don’t deal in evidence, Chancellor, I deal in secrets. There are CI documents in my possession that, if leaked to the enemy, could turn the tide of this war overnight.”
“I don’t doubt it. But if you’re going to try and gain my confidence in this war you’re so clearly waging against the imperialist faction, all on your own I might add, then I believe I should be privy to the nature of these documents.”
>”Chancellor, please. The imperialists are just as much a thorn in your side as they are in mine, if not more so.”
“Final warning, Black Bar. You know, my predecessors didn’t have to ask for this sort of information, it would simply be given to them. I am Chancellor of the Senatori, clearance level Alpha, and I have a right to access documents that, if fallen into the wrong hooves, could endanger my people and my country. Especially when said documents are being used as leverage in your game of chess with the Senatori in my absence.”
>That same thin smile, those same sunken eyes, pale rings around deepest black apertures, stare back at you, aware of some ulterior advantage, an ace up the sleeve
>That’s alright; you have several aces, and you’ve no qualms about getting hostile
>”There are clearance levels beyond Alpha, Chancellor. You know that.”
“Yes. I also know the ponies’ names who are gifted with such clearance levels. By the end of the week I could have them all deported, or worse. Knowledge only lifts a pony so high, only imbues so much power. But all that power is transitive, and moving, and impermanent. You’re in the know one day, you’re lost the next. I have POWER, Minister. Do you know what that means?”
>Hostile it is
>Now you have to focus on not overplaying your hand
>Black Bar lowers his head, nodding in false reverence
>Or could it be sincere? You couldn’t possibly venture a guess with this pony
>”Your wish is my command, Chancellor. The documents come first. But I need your word that if Blueblood, Jet Set, any of them push any further for this PAS deal, you’ll shut them down on it. Like it or not, you need the War in the West to survive. As do I.”
>Hook, line, and sinker
>The prelude is complete; soon, very soon, you’ll have what you’re looking for
“Much appreciated, Minister. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? If only you could be so-“
>”Wait.”
>Pardon?
>Did he just… raise a hoof to silence you?
>Your shock at the gesture is nearly eclipsed by your impressment by his boldness
>Patiently, you watch from a step above as Black Bar presses his frog to his ear, listening through radiating channels, shifting frequencies, the invisible language of the envoys of secrets
>At last, he nods, clicking off and returning his attentions to the real world, apparently unfazed by your less-than-amused expression
>”The assassin’s been positively IDed. Goes by the name ‘Tree Hugger’. Affiliations unknown as of yet, but they plan on working her over hard to find out what she really knows. Who she’s really working for.”
>Tree Hugger
>The name behind the face behind the silver streak that could have taken your life this fine afternoon
>You care less than you anticipated you would
“Tree Hugger? Sounds like a pipe-puffer. My gut tells me she’s a lone wolf, but I trust your agents to find the truth.”
>Nearing the top of the steps, facing down the parabolic arched gate of the White Crown, a gullet which swallows down in its softly glowing red embrace, candlelit interior, all the sins of war and politics, and the sinners alike
>And you, the undisputed king of sin, fit to wear that crown more than all the rest put together
>”You know, Chancellor, you may not believe a word I say, but I’ve come to trust that gut of yours. I really have.”
“I surely don’t believe that. Not even for a second.”
>”All the same. Perhaps there’s no grand conspiracy to it at all. Maybe she was only a disgruntled citizen.”
“That would make me feel worse than if she were paid.”
>”Scratch it, then. Maybe she was just high.”

******

>”Dreaming of me again, Twilight Sparkle? Here to glean some new Truth you’ve neglected? You were not satisfied with one epiphany, I take it.”
“I have a question for you. Something that puzzled me the last time we spoke.”
>”You already know that I am the Bearer of Questions. I give no answers but for those you already have within you.”
“Please. Only one answer, that’s all I ask of you. The Truth cannot be divulged solely by circulating my own assumptions. I need… proof. Proof that you’re real. That this isn’t all for nothing.”
>”… Very well. Inquire, and I shall respond. From the fold, I return what is Ours to you. Choose carefully, Twilight Sparkle.”
“You called me the ‘whisperer in the dark’ when you introduced yourself to me in our last encounter. It stuck with me, somewhere in my subconscious where my waking mind couldn’t see it. I want to know why.”
>”Why? You are not satisfied with this title in the light of Mater Solis, that which She has bestowed upon you?”
“It’s a title, then? Is that what I am now, a Whisperer?”
>”You whisper in your sleep. Your friends have warned you of this before. You whisper even before you lay to rest, in that darkness of untruth, where no trajectory may be foreseen. You compile lists, testimonies, the outcomes of the day, plans for the future. You are whispering right now, mouthing out my words to yourself.”
“You can’t expect me to accept that, and that alone. There was something deeper to it, I heard it in your tone then.”
>”The whisper is a half-truth, Twilight Sparkle. A breath interlaced with a word, a secret to all but yourself, and the recipient. When there are no recipients, the ownership of that secret whittles down to you, and you alone. In darkest night, the whisper is a comfort, or perhaps a reminder of sanity. Comforts are also, too often, half-truths. In our world, the Mother’s Garden, there is only Truth. Nothing is half-formed. Nothing is darkened by ego.”
“Is that what I am, then? Half-formed?”
>”Your epiphanies are strong. You hear my voice. You see my form. How long before you See as your Matron Sees, in waking movements, on the highline of the psychosphere?”
“Then you mean-“
>”However. You are not ascended, not formally. You insist upon sensing with your physical senses, rather than what is contained in your mind’s eye. That is where apotheosis lies.”
“My horn aches again. Why is this happening to me? Why me, ohhh, why me?”
>”Do you truly see me for what I am? Or are you still compelled to divert your gaze?”
“Oh, right. One question, one answer. I see… an outline. It’s blurry, but it’s there. It’s not classically angelic, it’s more like… a pony. Light, curving around a pony’s form. Dark in the middle. It’s all on the edge of my vision.”
>”That was truly the most pertinent question you had for me, Twilight Sparkle? There are not… more pressing matters on your mind?”
“There are, in truth. But I didn’t… I mean, I couldn’t ask you. Not you. They had to come from within, and they still do. I cannot rely completely on your guidance in this.”
>”My guidance, nay, the reflection of Mater’s will, is what has brought you so far. When you awaken, there will be stars in the skies, and dreams half-dreamt, and there will be, in that place you quest for, the object of your eye. But you know not yet the identity of that object.”
“No. I have no clue. The Matron told me to ‘see through’ the Truth. That’s what I’ve been trying to do all this time, but I don’t see anything beyond what I already know.”
>”Come closer. Whisper to me now. I would hear your fears. Your weaknesses.”
“I’ve lost your form now. I don’t know where to go. It’s all dark. There’s no light in here.”
>”Ah, now the weakness prevails. The mind’s eye, Twilight. She compels you to look with your mind’s eye. That is Sight. Find the outline, moving on the edge of your vision. Move towards that edge. It becomes a precipice, yes?”
“Yes.”
>”Walk along that edge, half on the floor of this place, half free-floating over the nothing beneath.”
“Nothing? It’s the trench again. The yellow cracks, they’re growing, spreading. Everything’s already in place, same as before.”
>”You see that now?”
“I see nothing else. I’m looking down. It’s dark, and the shapes are nearly invisible, but they are there. The edge… perfect balance… okay. I’m inching towards the edge. I can’t see you, but I can feel you.”
>”Seeing and feeling are the same sensation in the realm of Mater. Sight, sound, tactility, they are all the essence of her word. This was meant to be instilled in you the first time we met. You must focus your own senses if you desire to focus the boundaries of your search.”
“I’ve found you. It’s like… a corner. I’m standing on a corner. The cracks are still there, below us. I hear them as I see them.”
>”What do you hear from them?”
“Voices… screaming voices, from the other side. A city of… no, no, this can’t be right. This isn’t real.”
>”This is a vision. You already know this.”
“Yes, but… to see THAT, no… and the waves of Truth, crashing down, as though it can and will be true, someday… no, I won’t believe it.”
>”Tell me what you see, Twilight Sparkle.”
“As though you can’t see as well as I?! See the lights, hear the voices, feel the heat, that awful heat, inequine heat raging?! Oh Celestia, it’s horrible…”
>”You’re whispering.”
“It’s a habit, I suppose. That’s my fear, then? That future? How will that help me? How can that help anything? I need to know where I’m going, what I’m looking for, and I need to know it NOW!”
>”DO NOT MAKE DEMANDS OF ME, MORTAL! VENTURE TO SPEAK TO ME AS AN EQUAL, AS A SERVANT AT YOUR COMMAND ONCE MORE, AND I SHALL FALL SILENT TO YOUR PLIGHT! YOU SHALL BE LOST IN THAT MIST FOREVER, AND I ASSURE YOU THAT THE FUTURE YOU SEE THERE SHALL BE REALIZED!”
>…
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand this at all. I didn’t mean to speak to your Gloriousness as such. I know what you are. I know that you want to help me.”
>”I want you to help US, Twilight Sparkle. I speak to you only as a conduit of Truth. You must seek out that which is the epitome of Truth, the honesty of another. Find that purity, that perfection of the sixth part of Her will, the almighty Truth, and you will know your place in this earth. You are more important now than you could possibly imagine, and when the time comes that your works are complete, the Great Foundation shall be laid, and evil shall know no place in this world.”
“Evil? What evil?”
>”Know this, Twilight Sparkle. The contrivance of the monster can never be so destructive as the monster itself. Its craft is an extension of itself, and it knows only the way to reach further, borrow more to its grasping purchase. Find Honesty, and you may learn this firsthoof. I must take my leave now.”
“Wait! Aren’t I meant to fall at the end of these dreams? To be swallowed whole in the watery cracks of time? I’m here on the edge, now. I can fall. I don’t want to, but I can.”
>”Do it, then. Know horror.”
“But… I don’t want to. I want to know your name. If you have such a thing as a name.”
>”A second question, when you were only granted one.”
“It’s a formality. Nothing can come of it but a better manner of addressing you. No Truths to reveal.”
>”Ah, but only the greatest Truth there is. The name of an angel is… forbidden to the ken of mortals.”
“Then what can I call you?”
>”… as the Numen of old whispered from the trees and rivers and skies to the primeval tribes, gifting them with thought, and the veracity of sensation, so have I whispered… you understand already. Your Truth is mine. You may call me Numena, as is only appropriate. Now fall, Twilight Sparkle. Relive the nightmare you need, and cull the dreams you desire.”
>Falling again
>No water this time, just acceleration, levitation, freefall
>Indistinguishable from floating, and the swirling serpents, the naiads, the screaming and the heat
>Deeper, darker, brighter
>Terminal velocity, and
>Splat

******

>This time, you awake not in a fright, without remembered terror or phantom aching, but gradually, calmly, even tenderly
>Your mind drifts across the duality, life from dreams, fading in tessellated gradients, without the foggiest sense of whether your eyes are open or shut
>It’s a peaceful transition; there is no screaming involved, no thunderclaps or revelations of self-identity, not like last time
>Peace prevails, peace and quiet…
>Perhaps, a little too quiet
>This silence is almost eerie in its absolution, enveloping everything in a vacuum of constancy
>All there is to be heard is the low hum of the air rushing past outside, past the windows and walls, through the suction space between the levitating magnetic claws and the track beneath your hooves, over the top of the car and beyond in wisps, broken then rejoined
>This train cuts the air like a knife, a wedge-point making a fine incision through the long blanket of the cool late-evening atmosphere, and the air obliges, letting it pass on all sides, letting no point touch the earth
>Yes, you’re floating; well, not you specifically, but the entire TRAIN is floating, using no propulsion to facilitate this task but the drive of the magnetic force, pushing upwards and onwards from levers embedded in the track
>When you boarded the train, you found in the compartment in front of your assigned seat a pamphlet describing how the technology of the train works, apparently necessary because the tech is relatively new
>You must have read the whole thing through at least five times before putting it down and… well, you suppose you must have fallen asleep after a while
>The train functions on the principle of electromagnetic suspension: the C-shaped “claws” on the bottom edges curve under the track, alternately repelling and attracting magnets embedded within the rail itself to create a sort of stabilization effect, with no force being strong enough to fully counteract the other
>At the same time, the magnets in the track vary “up” or “down” to push the train in one direction or the other
>In this fashion, the train moves effectively unbounded by gravity or friction, sliding along the air itself, touching nothing, shooting straight into the point at the middle of the horizon, ever growing and shifting
>There’s a sort of comfort to that; a zone in which there are no forces but electromagnetism, nothing tethering you to the earth or slowing you down, just the sleek mechanical equations found in any elementary textbook on the subject
>Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes and his writings once made you admire magnetism above all other ethereal forces, this unseen, unfelt pull attracting and repelling various elements
>Ferromagnets, metals with magnetic properties, drawing together like moths to the flame of a candle, invisibly reaching out to one another, and now in the age of the New Maker’s Handbook that power is within the grasp of ponykind in a manner never before seen by any species
>Except, of course, for the Makers themselves
>What you would give to have lived then, in the time of the antiquity, in the time of Celestia and the Makers
>The old stories give you insight, and the perspective they offer is surely more than you could have ever known if you had truly experienced that history yourself, but… it’s different, this longing
>It’s almost blasphemous to think this way, but… if you had lived in that time, nine hundred-ninety years ago, when the Makers first came and offered their knowledge to ponykind, piece by piece, a trickle that could not satisfy your people, least of all the Princess herself…
>And if you had bore witness to that war of hubris, pony against Maker… who might you have fought for?
>Celestia, the princess who would be prophetess, a protector of her ponies, yet blind to her own entitlement, thinking only of what would be in the best interest of her kingdom?
>Or the Makers, passive and plotting, plans within plans, generous yet withholding the fullest potential of their technology to ponykind?
>Now more than ever, you feel caught up in the oppositions, desperate to find a balance point between faith and technology
>Perhaps the others were right when they told you, again and again, that there is only so much that can be done with the arts of the Makers before you begin to defy Mater’s will
>On the other hoof, is it not futile, and frankly narrow-minded, to hold the Sisterhood back from the changing times simply because it was decided to be that way fifty years ago?
>Find balance… find symmetry… find the Truth of the matter…
>It’s frustrating, it’s all so frustrating
>Celestia WANTED what you want, did she not? She wanted ponies to reach the heights of the Makers!
>She wanted what has now come true for everypony but the clergy that follows her most devoutly
>But, you must remind yourself, that was not the Prophetess; not the one enlightened on See Rock, not made privy to the secret Truth, however transient that might be
>That was the Princess, the one before the awakening, and what her successor-self the Prophetess thought of the technology of the Makers, and of the Makers themselves, went entirely unrecorded in the Books of the Sun
>Perhaps that part of her went unchanged when she passed to the other side of the fold; or perhaps the aspirations of a leader turned to the greed of a warlord was utterly inapplicable to that new mindset; the ultimate humbling, the casting out, could have provoked either response equally
>Anyway, it doesn’t matter much now
>This is your dilemma, not that of the Prophetess, and projecting your problems onto her, while not inherently disrespectful, certainly isn’t going to get you anywhere
>Hurtling forward, pulled towards the unknown, floating, screaming in a silent way…
>…
>Now, this is odd
>Having regained your wits, coming fully to the waking world, you’re now entirely positive your eyes are open
>And yet all you see about you is darkness
>Oh no, nonononono…
>You didn’t miss your stop, did you?
>7:30! 7:30! That was the projected time of arrival!
>You can’t see the face of your watch, you don’t know, but you can be certain that the sun doesn’t set before 7:30 this late in the spring!
>Darkness envelops you as utterly as the silence, and the shuffling of sleeping ponies in their seats now assails your hearing to counteract that
“Wait…”
>You whisper, careful not to disturb anypony, but intent on collecting your thoughts out loud
>You sit up a bit, stretching out your hindlegs to peer out the adjacent dark-tinted window
>What you see is no nighttime landscape, no starry sky or even the semblance of overcast, no distance, just a flat blackness pushed right up against the surface of the window
>There is a hint of movement there, invisible movement backwards and away like the wind, but otherwise there is nothing to be seen at all
>You’re moving, you have to be, but there’s nothing out there except…
“A tunnel!”
>”Shhhhh!”
>Oops, you may have exclaimed that one a little too loudly
“Sorry!”
>You must be burrowing through the mountains now, nearing your destination
>Only now do you remember the digital screen at the front of the car displaying progress markers of sorts, a way of knowing at a glance approximately how far on this voyage you’ve come
>Glancing forward, you see that same searing white-and-blue glow, a moving map with an iconic representation of the train at its center, vectors radiating from either end, conjoined at round red points with the names of their respective locations above them
>In the top right-hoof corner, the time: 7:09
>Twenty-one minutes out from the next red dot in the series: Valley Station
“These trains sure are punctual.”
>You’d expected more delay due to the… unfortunate incident at Mons Station, but it looks as though you actually woke up just in time to prepare to disembark
>You’ll collect your saddlebags, get off at the platform, find a telephone, find a map, and figure out how and where exactly you’ll be spending your night
>But, as for right now, the most pertinent thing on your mind is catching, in your conscious clarity, what remains of your latest epiphany
>It’s too dark to write, or even to find your quill and the notepad you purchased at the station shop, so you’ll have to content yourself with remembering
>Focus now… focus on the abstractions, the shape of the memory, the emotions…
>From there, a proper form might be divulged, and the Truth behind what she told you might be understood
>She…
>Yes, the angel has a name now; no longer is she merely a messenger, or a bearer of questions
>Numena, for the numen, the old spirits of the wisps, forgotten by religion and replaced with the proper ideals of Mater Solis, made redundant in pagan squalor
>Numena has been your guide thus far, willing you to discover your destiny, no matter how vague that might be; therefore, you feel obligated to trust her word
>Other than that name, what else is there to remember from that swirling void of self-reassurance?
>In the very end of the dream, you fell down into a trench, exactly like last time
>But you did it of your own volition now; despite not wanting to do so, wanting only to remain on that half-ledge, you leapt and succumbed to the light below
>Darkness in light, that’s what you remember… as you went deeper into the pit, free of water this time, vacuous in composition, the light itself was black and warm
>And the whisperer in the dark… what on earth was that all about?
>Was that truly the most pertinent question you could have posed to this supremely knowledgeable spirit on high, the Solenoid, the ultimate reflection of Mater’s light?
>Numena still wasn’t solenoidal in form, but frankly you don’t remember what kind of form she did take
>A halo of light cushioned the miasma of impenetrable black at her core; that’s really all you remember of her
>You must have stumbled then, to have posed such a foolish question, for certainly you were not lucid
>What COULD you have asked her instead, using your one question granted to you?
>Light and dark intermingling on opposing manifolds, reaching out and never touching one another
>You really don’t know, to be completely honest
>Her form: light surrounding dark; the pit; dark surrounding light; the passage of dreams to reality and back again
>Equilibrium
>Now there comes another equilibrium, diverting your attention away from the complexities of the dreamscape and back towards the window
>Thin streams of red and yellow light are channeling in from somewhere, long and dim, illuminating the features of this tunnel
>The blanket of black outside is replaced by dark grey metal beams yawning vertically over the top of the car, and within the cabin, faces, upturned legs, the backs of upholstered seats are flooded with reflected light
>As the train carries you forward, speeding through the whistling cavity of this tunnel at four hundred kilometers per hour, the equilibrium further shifts, and darkness seems wholly conquered by this fiery aura
>You almost want to find a way to slide away the glass window and peer out the side into the gap between the train and the metallic tunnel wall to identify the source of this great light, but as naïve as you’ve come to realize you are, even you know how foolish that would be
>At any rate, you’re fairly certain you already know what that source is: the only Source, Her Radiance Herself
>For, at last, the metal wall speeds away as though torn by some great hoof, and in its place comes into focus a landscape unlike any you’ve seen before
“It’s…”
>There’s no doubt about it: this is where you were meant to go
>Beyond an alpine tree-line rushing by at the edge of the elevated track, the expanses of Rich Valley stretch into the horizon, locked in the southeast by a wall of dark crests
>On this side, the northern mountains move slowly behind you, the tunnel’s darkness receding in space and from memory, rolling back into oblivion
>The sun sets in the west, behind you; the aurora of its evening redness paints violet the stripes of farmland and the leaves of scattered thickets of forest
>Above, you can almost trace a line between the crimson energy of Mater’s glory, tapering off from the sunset in waves of brightness, and the encroaching indigoes of the night, constellations gleaming through shifting craters in the belly of the cumulonimbus
>Below the silhouetted crags so many miles away, halfway between the horizon and the thin steel windowsill, there are tendrils of yellow light, lit roads perhaps, snaking out of a central structure of sorts
>Puffs of silver smoke weave into the sky, joining the clouds in their dance
>In one direction, ordered trees, rows upon rows of oaks and birches and even tall strokes of cedars, extend across acres of land, marked out by high fences
>In another, the plots of farmland zigzag like patchwork, segregated by shrubbery and roads, growing all manner of unidentifiable crops
>You saw many plots of such land off the side of the tracks on the voyage here, but none so enormous, none so… ordered, like a city of plants
>You trace with your hoof out in the direction of the far mountains, striking a path between dark forest, long reaches of crop, and at last to a vast complex of what could be civilization of some kind
>Indeed, the track appears to curve off to that place at some point; from here, you can see the faintest gap in the low trees ahead which advances on there, perpendicular to your current path
>Low, squatting structures, taller metal towers, curious coiling cylinders, fat on the edges of it all, towards the farmland, seem to comprise a city
>It’s smaller than Mons Canteria, to be sure, but a city nonetheless, at least by your limited frame of perspective
>Far away, the hills roll deeper, and the ground crops taper into thin strands riding the trenches between elevated mounds, until they disappear entirely, replaced by untamed country
>After that, there are only trees, taller and wider there, great dunes of dirt dotted by iron spires, green lights flickering on and off like signals to the world, to space
>The mountains, as on this end of the valley, curve off to some unknown place, descending in steps to a horizon without feature at the plains of the east
“…beautiful.”
>You’re whispering now, among the listless, the sleeping, the monotonous urges of ponies bound for places beyond that east, thinking nothing of this place, choosing to rest rather than witness it
>Their banality is your revelation; what they ignore, you indulge
>That whisper is a half-truth, and the equilibrium at last gives way to the victorious night
>Mater Solis sets in the direction from whence you came, and the day is ended, replaced with the crescent moon which flickers like the stars in the hidden shadows of the cloud canopy
>A mere sliver, shining like a sickle over those mountains, this valley, these ponies
>Mater’s light bounces off of that white surface, granting the valley a soft lunar glow, the ultimate reflection
>And were the moon full, as it was that night of the first dream, when the thunder ceased, and the storm clouds receded, and you went to bed beside your sisters to whisper the litanies, the urges and the uncertainties, you might make out the features of its quiet observer
>The Mare in the Moon is hidden to you now, but she waxes from the fold, and in fifteen days she shall be revealed once more to watch over the starry night
>The time is 7:15, and the equilibrium is shifting, dark to light, slowly but surely…

…

>Fifteen minutes later, the silent train gradually becomes louder
>Steel begins to grate against steel below your hooves, first faintly, only as a mere brush-up, hovering cyclically in long sinusoidal curves
>Then those miniscule pings become roaring shrieks vibrating through the hull of the train car; an almost equine vocal pitch rises and falls in cascading hums, whirring, oscillating, up and down and up again
>WooooaaaaeeeeeEEEEEEEEEeeeeeaaaaoooooouuuuuuu
>Alongside that unsettling howl comes a physical counterpart, equal in magnitude and form
>The train rises and falls subtly, shifting left and right also, grasping in seeming vain for balance to stabilize its twisting, erratic movements
>You’d be panicking, half expecting a terrific crash, a burning column of wreckage making waste beneath the twilit night, smoke rising into the stars
>At least, you would be if it hadn’t already happened about ten times already, at ten prior stops
>Besides, you understand fully what you’re hearing and feeling now from your consultation of the onboard pamphlet
>Knowledge prevails once again
>There’s no crash imminent; it’s only the feedback from the maglev braking system doing what it was designed to do
>As you rapidly approach Valley Station, the magnets embedded in the C-claws wrapped about the undersides of the tracks are gradually shifting their polarity, bit by bit counteracting the force of the magnets within the track itself rather than amplifying it
>Stabilizing mechanisms are adjusting the flux of the magnets in extraordinarily minute amounts, amplified by the momentum of the train sitting atop them
>This is the origin of the rumbling, the physical sensation, but that awful scraping noise, the violent crescendo and muted rolling tones beneath it are a different story
>The train’s perfect lift and, consequently, its lack of friction impedance, is partially dependent on its velocity
>The passage of the train through the field created by the magnets in the track induces currents in the train’s own electromagnets, causing a sort of feedback loop which grows exponentially as the train gathers speed
>Four hundred kilometers per hour is not the absolute speed limit of this train, but rather its highest SAFE speed; if the whistling white serpent were allowed to go much faster, the stabilization mechanisms would lose their ability to make corrective adjustments in the proper sequence and ratios, and the whole thing might tear itself apart
>At least, that’s what you assume would happen; the pamphlet doesn’t exactly delve into that morbid possibility
>When the train slows, the feedback loop also degrades, and complex processes are enabled to ensure that the train doesn’t lose its balance as it lowers back onto the track
>Light “landing gear” of sorts, a set of undriven wheels and insulated clamps, extend from the undercarriage, the former of which accounting for the rolling drawl and the latter explaining the screeching falsetto
>Two voices in a turbulent duet, like the hymns performed at service, headed up by the Sisters of Song for that month, one pitted against the other, the brake against the facilitator of perpetual motion
>And the duet itself is pitted against the train’s own apparent desire to move on, away and out of this place once marked as the grave of so many ponies, fertilizing the potent depths of the soil for nigh on a millennium along with the freshwater flood which soaked into their homes, their lands, their consciences
>Celestia had been there, atop… well, which one of those distant mountains IS Mount Fillai, exactly?
>She had felt a Truth pushing strong against her own intention to save what she could, directing her instead to follow a path that was and had always been meticulous in its ambitions
>Now that same Truth is pulling you in, an intangible force matched to something equally as intangible, if far less potent in its mystic ambiguity
>Magnetism, pulling you along a design of Mater Herself, carried by a messenger to the unknown recesses of the dream-mind; is there anything else in existence so significant as that parallel?
>Mount Fillai is not, nor has it ever been, your destination, but rather the valley itself
>Where the Prophetess was above, you remain below, but in the same realm of dichotomy you have been driven further along than she
>A turnback for her, and a confrontation with the hypocrisy which encumbered her from knowing Truth in its flawless form, has now been subverted, transformed into a tunnel, long and wide, stealthily averting any old stallions with words of discouragement on their tongues
>You’re here for a different purpose, to be sure, one you still can’t fully understand, but perhaps that too is by design
>Perhaps you’re being led into an event to come, bound to become a piece of some grander puzzle you won’t recognize until you’re there, standing in your proper place
>All of it is in service of the faith anyhow, so it shouldn’t make a difference either way
>Mater Solis wouldn’t allow you to fail… would She?
>…
>That line of thinking, and the litanies you know you’ll have to perform in response to it, are abruptly cut off by a tinny voice, identical in pitch and intonation to the odd-sounding broadcast voice at Mons Station, circulating here in the cabin and returning to life some of the more listless, sleepy ponies in the weary dark
>”Attention all passengers: now arriving at Valley Station, Rich Valley, Foal Mountain Barony province. The train will be departing again in fifteen minutes. For those disembarking, please take care to collect all of your belongings, both beneath your seat and from the shelving compartments at the front of your car, and refrain from disturbing other passengers. Once offboard, please have your papers and luggage ready to be examined at the Arrivals booth. Thank you for riding with us today.”
>It can’t be the same announcer intoning all these messages, right? She’d have to take every train in and out of every station in Canterium
>Unless…
>You shudder at the amount of sense your sudden revelation makes
>Perhaps the reason the voice sounds so subtly inequine, so metallic and dripping with eccentric syntax could be that… the voice doesn’t belong to a pony at all
>It could be a machine transmitting words in the same frequencies with which the equine vocal cords are naturally equipped
>A false voice, an imposter, and you’ve been falling for it all this time!
>This was one technology you certainly weren’t expecting to be possible in the New Maker’s world, but you should hardly be surprised; it seems that this entire day has been a never-ending stream of impossibilities
>Due to the restrictions imposed by the Last Matron Onus, your knowledge of the principles of this new breed of tech is highly limited
>But you suspect the same is most likely true for the vast majority of ponies; you’ve indeed heard it mentioned before by more worldly Sisters that the government and the scientific community have a fairly tight stranglehold on that sort of information
>Even still… how easy it is for the mind of a pony to be fooled by the false comfort of a voice that by all rights should belong to one of their own kind
>As the blackened mattes of crops stretching long over shallow hills outside turn rather abruptly to well-lit red brick facades, separated from the track fence by a few meters of green space, you attempt to disperse these thoughts
>Summon away vestigial fears of technology, Twilight Sparkle; those are the voices of the old Sisterhood, and you must help to usher in the new
>The bricks are rising higher now, the wall reclining inward at a shallow angle until it meets with a taller embankment, edged with polished stone and capped with floodlights and deep yellow fences
>Supermatron… that was what the Matron Celest dreamt of then, a Supermatron in the near future, a prophecy certainly more potent than your own given her capabilities…
>The scenery is changing at a logarithmically slower pace, the lines of mortar between red rectangles becoming more readable, no longer vectors but now made of a definite, touchable material
>Thick iron bars replace the track fence at a certain point, and before long the night sky is totally eclipsed by a white panel ceiling overhead, thin intermittent shadows finding refuge between spaced-out light strips
>It wasn’t determined to be you, necessarily, it was only an image that SOMEPONY might rise to that light… so there’s still some hope yet…
>Hope? Hope that you might NOT become the Supermatron of the Celestian faith? Where is this coming from?
>You should be honored, nay, euphoric even, to be considered a candidate in such an exalted ritual!
>But—and blasphemy it might be, but you cannot lie to yourself about your own feelings—the thought only makes you want to hide, someplace very dark, very deep, someplace where that obligation might never find you
>Combat that all you like, the feeling won’t go away, and you know it all too well
>Slower, slower, the iron bar line ends, replaced with a raised polished wooden floor coming nearly to your own ground level 
>Down your line of sight from the window, there are no more bricks, but rather plaster walls painted in multicolored stripes, weaving in and around one another
>At some points, the lines are parallel, dark brown traveling alongside green and blue and maroon
>At others, they zigzag up and down, one over the other, making diamonds and hexagons and star patterns
>The patterns are familiar, but you can’t quite place the source of their influence…
>Above the lines, on a long dark wood stripe which meets the ceiling, five alternating symbols bejewel the border, a pattern repeated down the line to the end of the station
>From here, they appear to be in the shape of fruits; red apple, green pear, purple plum, blue grape, orange… well, orange
>You remember Brit saying something about fruit and grains being the valley’s chief export… perhaps this has something to do with that?
>In only a few moments, the placid, evening landscape of far-reaching fields and distant urban monoliths has transformed into a furnished interior, the station platform
>On the ground, only a few ponies wait outside, a far cry from the inexhaustible multitudes at the capital
>The station itself also appears to have a completely different philosophy to its architecture and general atmosphere
>Unlike those stark blacks and whites you found so dull back then, this station is resplendent in color, yet somehow less inviting, perhaps owing to the absence of a glass roof so as to let in natural light
>Not that there is much natural light at this hour, but still, the glass might serve in making the place feel roomier
>As it stands, the place is downright claustrophobic with its too-low ceilings, uncanny yellowed illumination, wood and plaster decking every surface, no benches to be seen, only the impatient standing few waiting for the doors to open
>Just as you waited for the doors to open on the same train, just hours ago, just before witnessing…
>No, it isn’t wise to think of that now
>It would only serve to distract you from fulfilling what needs to be done this night
>”Stand clear. Doors now opening.”
>There’s that voice again
>Hopefully this will be the last you hear of it for some time
>It’s odd, once you’ve noticed that the voice doesn’t belong to a real pony, once you’ve garnered just that first little inkling of suspicion, how it suddenly becomes so obviously fake
>Every little metallic twinge and inconsistency of speech seems amplified to your ears
>No matter; the train has stopped completely, its braking system having done its job to the letter, and now as promised the unmistakable sound of the sliding glass doors sheathing back within the wide slots down the hall of the car resonates
>You’ve no baggage to collect from the overhead, only your twin saddlebags, stuffed beneath your seat at the outset of the voyage, which you promptly retrieve
>Casting them over your flanks, you sidle out of the seat row, careful not to step on the outstretched hoof of a snoozing stallion on your way
>Now it’s on towards the open portal, leftward oriented, down a cramped corridor filled with ponies in all manners of postures, attires, and stages of awareness
>The lights suddenly flicker on in the cabin, making your short trek a little easier but causing a considerable amount of groaning and hushed complaints all around you
>You agree with their sentiment; normally, you wouldn’t consider this to be a late hour, but for whatever reason you feel as though you might drop right here on the thick blue carpet for another nap
>It must be the fatigue of travel; don’t let it get to you, Twilight, at the very least pull yourself off the train
>At last you navigate the corridor properly, saying your “Sorry!”s and “Excuse me!”s and coming to the open door and stepping onto the platform and…
>And realizing you’re the only pony getting off here
>You suppose it shouldn’t surprise you, given that everypony else in your car has seemed content with napping all the way to Horseshoe Bay, but even still…
>Brittle Bong said this place was the biggest exporter of lumber in the entirety of Canterium, so you’d assumed there’d be more traffic at the station
>Whatever the reason, you’re one passenger shooting off from the rest, those bound for the end of the line, and you’re already where you need to be
>You cross the threshold, standing just on the edge
“Oh, Celestia.”
>You’re dizzy all of a sudden, struggling to regain balance
>It was the vertigo of stepping down, but more importantly it was the shock of the critical point that just struck your thoughts
>The edge…
>You were walking balanced on an edge in the vision, an edge between safety and the doom below, walking towards a metaphorical corner, an intersection of edges…
>You saw only with your feelings, persisted only by will alone…
>And you found Numena there, huddled against something white, a mirror of sorts
>Through the mirror, you saw something incomprehensibly vile, a future so bleak you couldn’t venture to guess at its origin
>You don’t remember any specifics, though—only the emotions which passed through your unconscious mind
>Self-reassuring, a Truth above truths, a prophetic epiphany…
>The nausea has subsided, and you right yourself, staring out into the empty station
>Those who were waiting have already boarded, taking your place on the eastbound express, leaving you here utterly alone
>Seems now there’s no place to go save for a well-lit tunnel at the corner of the wide space, white arrow-marks on the walls beckoning you towards the opening
“Guess I’ll just follow the arrows.”
>That’s what you’ve been doing all along, right? Following instructions, no agency of your own?
>Now isn’t the time to get disillusioned, though
>The golden standard must be quelled, so on you continue, down the hall, a left turn, then a right, through Arrivals, then left again, up some stairs and into a widening of the confines, a room with a glass back, an exit
>Finally
>Beyond the glass, the thick yellow light you saw from afar covering long stretches of roads now shines down on an expanse of grey asphalt, and on into the night in either direction
>An impenetrable thicket of pine trees is the back edge of that scene, which you’re now entering by way of a glass sliding door, same as the train
>There are a few ponies mulling about on the sidewalk before the lot, most dressed in the same blue and white suits; they’re likely employees of the station, and they’re wordlessly going about their business in their own ways
>Some are stacking boxes into trucks, some are conversing with a heavyset pony in plaid and overalls, some are sitting behind a gated-off booth beneath a bright blue sign reading “TICKETS”, and none seem particularly interested in helping you
>Not that you expect them to do so, but one would imagine that a Sister of the faith might be treated more… delicately
>It’s entirely possible that the faith isn’t entirely common in this region anymore; the Matron Celest did tell you that there once was a convent out here, near the base of Mount Fillai, but it’s been derelict for quite some time
>The realization that you have no idea how you’re going to make your way into the city proper is just now setting in
>You have no notion of how far away the nearest inn might be, no prospects for transportation, no way of contacting your friends, nothing…
>Well, perhaps that last one might not be so true
>Down the line, fixed to one of many square columns holding up the overhang above your head, a wedge thinning to a point before the barren lot, there looks to be a small maroon box labeled “PHONE” 
>You’ve heard of devices like these, allowing for public access telephone calls, but you haven’t yet seen one
>It’s getting late… but not so late that the Matron wouldn’t be in her office rather than retired to her quarters
>You start towards the phone box, one weight of many lifted from your withers
>One task at a time, and eventually you’ll have completed them all
>It may not be the safest option, but if it comes to it, you could spend the night on one of the benches you see marking out a dotted line around the perimeter of the roundabout lot
>After that, who knows?
>One step at a time…
>The space between you and the box is closing, but a faintly chilling sensation is beginning to encroach on you from behind
>You shiver from the draft, an action that warms you only for an instant inside your green wool cloak
>The sensation isn’t coming from the cold, though; there’s something else coming, a shape, a sense of realization
>Before you can even understand what that realization entails, something yellow and brown goes dashing forth from the edge of your vision, bumping into you slightly on its way, and coming clean into the center of the walkway
>It’s the backside of a pony, and it’s getting smaller as it runs towards…
>The phone box!
>Determined, you chase after that backside with everything you can muster
>The Prophetess will forgive you later when you supplicate yourself to her, but you were here first!
>The first phone call goes to you, and you’ll give this very rude pony a stern talking-to when you catch up to them!
>You gallop after the yellow blur in a near frenzy, careful not to trip over the flowing cape of your attire
>After ten meters or so, however, it dawns on you that the distance between the two of you is only widening
>You won’t catch up to this pony, not when you’re not especially… athletic, to say the least
>Let’s just say you never joined in the running parties around the inner convent perimeter that the more active Sisters would occasionally assemble
“Stop… wait… I was already… stop…”
>You’re panting already; the fatigue of today’s events must have really affected you
>But the words must carry far in this stone cavity, for as soon as they leave your lips the pony’s rushing hooves grind to a halt, skidding across the concrete
>As they swivel, you first catch a glimpse of a stallion’s square muzzle in profile, then an emerald green eye, then tufts of streaked orange mane falling down past the ears and along the ridge of a broad, flat crest
>The face, gaze now directed at you, has a nervous, somewhat guilty expression plastered across it, and its owner turns fully to start on a walk back towards you
 >”Uh, dreadful sorry about that. Isn’t my style to cut in front of others. Just didn’t see ya there, that’s all.”
>Here’s an accent you’ve never heard before
>It’s light, at the very least, so you don’t have any trouble understanding him
“It’s alright. You just caught me a bit off guard is all. But yes, I was about to use that phone box there, if you don’t mind.”
>”Not at all, ma’am. Least so long as I get the second round.”
>You smile
“I shouldn’t be taking too long.”
>You walk up to the phone box together now, stallion lingering a few steps behind you patiently
>”Calling home?”
“Yes, actually. I might have to make a couple calls. I hope I’m not infringing.”
>”Nah, not at all. Be warned though, out-of-province calls cost a cannon and a hock. Y’aint from around these parts, I take it?”
“I’m… from the city.”
>”Gathered that by your talk. Which city would that be, exactly?”
“Mons Canteria.”
>”Ooowee, THE city! See whatcha mean. Yeah, that’ll cost a pretty bit on a box like this. Y’might be better off going into town, finding yourself a proper trans-line, what won’t cost ya none. Say, those are some interesting threads you got there. Very fashionable.”
>Fashionable?
“Well, uh, thank you. They’re simply the traditional garb of one of my position.”
>”Position? Now what would that be precisely?”
“I’m a Sister Missionary of the Faith.”
>The stallion’s muzzle wrinkles slightly, confusion seemingly transforming into feigned understanding
>”Ahhh, okay. The… faith?”
“Of the Prophetess Celestia.”
>”Oh, yeah, of course! Yeah, yeah, we’ve got… we’ve got something like that round these parts. My daddy sometimes mentioned it was big around when he was a colt, though it ain’t much anymore. One of the families, I think the Plums, still teach it to their foals, but the rest of us ain’t entirely too keen on religion. Not since, well, you know. No offense, of course.”
“None taken.”
>Some taken
>”Well, uh, the name’s Braeburn, by the way. Braeburn… Apple. As you could probably tell by the cutie mark.”
>Indeed, the mark adorning his flank seems to be one large, shining crimson apple
“My name is Twilight Sparkle. Sister Twilight Sparkle.”
>”Happy to make your acquaintance, Twilight. But, uh, are you gonna be making that call soon? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“If what you’re telling me about long distance calls is true, I may hold off until I can find a, what was it, a ‘trans-line’?”
>”Yeah. These old things are really just suited for calling a few towns over, up to High Ridge or down south to Lumberton is about its range before it starts griffin’ you. There’s a center in town with trans-lines open 24/7, and they’re satellite-fed with the dish up top the roof, like those, uh, cellular devices all the richer folk are starting to get trickled down from whoever makes those. You probably see those things everywhere at the Mons, though.”
“Cellphones? I’ve seen a couple. We aren’t allowed that sort of technology inside the convent though, and… we Sisters don’t exactly get out much.”
>”I’ll be. Well, that certainly makes you more familiar to me than any city folk ever passed through here before.”
“I suppose I’ve never really thought of myself as ‘city folk’ before today, to be entirely honest.”
>”Might wanna get used to the thought around here. That accent’ll be tipping hats and begging for questions once you find yourself in town. Speaking of, are you… waiting for anypony here?”
“Not exactly. Why do you ask?”
>Braeburn snorts, and that familiar feeling of embarrassment comes over you again
>You asked another stupid question, didn’t you?
>”Well, Sister Twilight, quaint as things may seem in our little valley, things are spaced out quite a bit on through the lumber yards and the granaries, and it’s a few miles yet thatta way-”
>He gestures, foreleg raised in an eastward bearing, hoof haloed by bending moonlight, a bright totem against black
>The inverse epiphany
>”-until you start to hit the souks, and then Richton proper. That’s where you’ll find the trans-lines, and a place to bed up. And it ain’t a walk I’d generally condemn a mare of… how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
>”Well, how’s that! You’re the same age as… never mind. Ain’t a walk I’d generally condemn a mare of seventeen to traverse by her lonesome. Course, if you wait for me to make this call, I’d be happy to drive you in.”
>You mull this prospect over for a brief moment
>If you accept, it would be the second time within the very first day of an already uncertain quest that you’d be riding in a closed vehicle with a complete stranger
>The first time went very well, but you’ve no guarantee on the second
>Something’s changed in your decision-making routine; a kind of wariness, it seems, has been flipped on like an electric light, some rubberized switch in the recesses of your mind alerting you to probabilities of favorable outcomes
>Chances now, roaming in invisible space, compounding upon one another, leaving emission trails in shades of grey over a once fully black-and-white canvas
>There were right actions, and there were wrong actions, and now there are… well, uncertainties
>What changed? What triggered this onset, what flipped the switch?
>Oh, of course
>Blood splattering on pristine white floors, the stare of deepest shadow, some immortal hoof reaching inside and complicating matters
>You brushed with certain danger and came out unscathed, but it impacted you
>It made you cynical
>But the chances are still uneven
>Would riding with Braeburn here be more or less hazardous than braving the trip into Richton on your own four hooves?
“I wonder, Mr. Braeburn, if this could all just be an elaborate scheme to get me to cede the first call over to you.”
>”I certainly ain’t so clever as all that, Miss Twilight.”
“Will you give me just a moment?”
>”I got plenty of moments.”
>Braeburn works a few coins out of his vest pocket, inserting them one by one into the slot of the phone box and punching the proper sequence into the pad
>At the same time, you turn a few degrees, walking a few steps over to one of the train station workers, clad in dark blue denim jumpsuit and hauling a few sealed crates out of the back of an enormous metal box on wheels
“Excuse me, I don’t want to be any trouble to you, but… would you mind giving me directions into town?”
>The broad-shouldered earth pony, muzzle smeared with flecks of dirt, lets out a great guttural laugh
>”Ah can hear yer jabberin’ from over here, missy. It’s as ‘e say-s, four miles to the souks, an’ y’can’t relax around them desert dwellers, though this ‘un ‘ere won’t admit it. Y’got nuthins to worry ‘bout with that BASTARD there, though. He gives free rides, folks like yous all the time.”
>Braeburn looks over from his level-volumed call, and from here you can see a bit of frustration in his eyes
>”Gimme a sec, Turnip.”
>Now glaring at the worker pony:
 >”THOUGHT I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT NO MORE!”
>Another low laugh spills from the worker’s wide mouth
>”Aw, ‘e’s sen-si-tive. Brae’s good fer a ride, though. Since I know you ain’t comin’ up on big frightful me without that question on yer mind, missy.”
“Um… thanks. Thank you.”
>You turn back to approach Braeburn, who is finishing up business over the phone
>You wanted a second opinion, and now you’ve got it
>If the unloader stallion can vouch for Braeburn, then you suppose you should be able to trust him that much more with delivering you into town
>”Satisfied?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… well, you understand, right? It’s a more dangerous world-“
>”Than it’s ever been?”
“Than I ever expected. Friend of yours?”
>”Pfft, acquaintance at best. I always hear that Mons Canteria’s worse off in that regard.”
“That isn’t the part of Mons Canteria I’m from.”
>Together, the two of you strike a perpendicular path, away from the long glass trapping of the station plaza and into the rapidly cooling night, pines rustling softly in the wind out there beyond the border of the shadow
>Braeburn directs you towards a truck, a beat-up block of rusted metal, once painted a uniform green, clearly an older breed than Brit’s vehicle
>Another truck, another long drive into the unknown
>”Ain’t often I act chaperone for a clergyfolk of any kind. Mostly trade partners, the occasional tourist.”
“Do you do this a lot, then? Pick up random ponies at the train station?”
>Gently, you pull open the passenger door with your mouth and climb into the truck, Braeburn quickly following suit on the other side
>”It’s… a hobby of mine. Bit embarrassing, but I guess I just like showin’ folk around the place. I mean, I don’t generally lurk about the station like such, this was just a fluke. Had to call a partner of mine up at the acreage after a pretty dang long ride with some cargo from High Ridge, and the closest public phone to the loading platform down south of here was this one. But yeah, I like… hearing stories. Anypony comes through Rich Valley I ain’t never heard of, you can bet I’ll be showin’ them around town, listenin’ to them talk about how they wound up here.”
“You almost say that like it’s a bad thing.”
>Braeburn turns the ignition, and the engine flares to life, rumbling within some invisible place, granting agency of movement to a stationary object
>Combustion, and the hidden power of the earth; black tar, rising up in steady flow, processed and delivered here for the purpose of rapid, measured explosions
>It’s in some ways the antithesis of magnetism on the sliding scale of Maker innovation: crude in its development rather than clean and inert, oscillatory by nature rather than a linear property, accruing energy from matter, rather than the other way around
>Magnetism draws elements together, and combustion rips them apart
>”Rich Valley exports. The Five Families all together contribute to feeding and housing a pretty huge portion of the country. Lumber, grains, fruits, vegetables, paper, hay, it’s all on our shoulders. We export, but we don’t import much. What I’m trying to say is, I guess, if you come here, it’s for a reason. It’s… conditional.”
“I think I get what you mean. You want more ponies to come here and see what you have to offer.”
>You’re pulling across asphalt, over a bump, turning sharply into the skylit road, a chiseled trench through the wild
>Is it wild? The woods must be controlled, managed, inspected, chopped…
>”Oh no, believe me, we have enough ponies comin’ in already. From, well, y’know. Heck, my daddy’d not want me talkin’ about it all that way. A-and hoowee, if my cousin could hear me now, she’d buck me over them mountains.”
“I… don’t really know, actually. Rich Valley is very unfamiliar to me.”
>Braeburn glances at you quizzically
>”Y’all came all this way from the big city, not knowin’ what you’d find here?”
>Oh no
>He’s seen right through you, right down to the core; he knows your intentions, or lack thereof
>It isn’t something to feel guilty over, and yet guilt is what you feel nevertheless, inexplicably
>Splat
>That noise…
>You turn your attention to the windshield, where more splats have resounded yet, and crystal prisms are scattering the yellow light in circle-form distortions
>Rain on a windshield… you suppose it’s a sound you’ve never actually heard
>It’s crisp and blunt, not like the muted crack of a downpour on hard cobblestone, nor the muffled pitter-patter against fields of grass
>It’s comfortable, somehow
“I-I didn’t know, I mean… I didn’t KNOW all the finer details of the society here. Could you elaborate on that? If you don’t mind, that is.”
>He’s suspicious
>Suspicious of what, exactly?
>You have nothing to hide from the uninitiated
>And yet… Her light, Her mission you carry unsullied… what might he think?
>What if he tried to stop you from reaching the Truth?
>”It’s the Saddle Arabians. See, my… well, Baron Rich, what who technically owns all this land in the valley, he’s made some policy changes round here to increase productivity. You familiar with the Saddle Arabian conflict?”
>Not at all
“Vaguely.”
>”Lots of refugees, well, I guess in theory they’re all excommunicants, come over across the sea after they’ve been banished from Saddle Arabia for one reason or another. Something to do with their king, I think, and fears over civil war, that sort of thing. Point is, these folks got no place else to go but the east coast, and once they get there they just keep walkin’ and walkin’ until they get to the Barony. See, Filthy Rich has set up a deal with the government, make sure they don’t come in any further while getting cheaper labor off of them Saddle Arabians. Makes everypony happy, I guess.”
“They help farm the land?”
>”That, and… well, something else. I-I don’t know much about it, it’s construction of some kind. All the cylinder towers you see, y’might’ve seen ‘em when you were comin’ across the high rail. Lots of them are building those. Some ponies just think there’s too many of ‘em though, that’s the problem.”
“What do you believe, Braeburn?”
>”Me? No, I… I can’t have an opinion really, one way or another. Don’t! Don’t, I should say. ‘Can’t’, dunno why I said that. Trouble is, my family’s got serious concerns over it. Along with the other four Families. I try to stay out of it best I can.”
“What do you mean ‘the other four families?’ You mentioned five families earlier, too.”
>Braeburn sighs again, looking out over the freshly cleared horizon
>The pines have tapered off, thinned to only two or three layers of trunks moving in an interference pattern across the bold, hazy line between sky and peak
>The constellations are invisible beneath this harsh streetlight, replaced utterly by the climbing beacon rising in the distance
>Richton, you presume
>”The valley, and the Foal Mountains, and much of what’s beyond them, fall under the Rich Barony. But before the Riches held domain here, the Five Families were essentially the governing bodies as well as the majority of the population. Understand?”
>…
“Not really.”
>”There’s the Apples, the Oranges, the Pears, the Plums, and the Berries. We each got our land, and we each hold to it. We’ve also each got our own baron or baroness, but they’re not equal to Baron Rich. I have- wait, did you just yawn?”
>It’s true, you did just yawn
>Why are you getting so sleepy? You aren’t uninterested
“I… I suppose so. Sorry, Braeburn, it’s… been a long day.”
>”I understand. I enjoy any opportunity to talk about the valley, but you seem… less knowledgeable than most. No offense, of course. Just wonderin’… well, why’d you come here in the first place? If you don’t mind my askin’.”
>Silence now, a dark silence, thick in the night air
>Here it is, the test of engagement, a test of Truth
>Forward acceleration jolts your body, bound by a belt, as the truck lurches to a halt at a jagged crossing, allowing another vehicle to pass before it
>It carries the wind behind it, that vehicle; you hear the rush even through the glass panes, through the raindrops
>Amber puddles, tessellating in new arrangements with every passing moment, a reactive force to the falling droplets, reacts further still to the rolling car, splashing up high in spires of winking water
>And the brakes themselves; not magnetism, not the loud inverse of prior motion, but the stoppage of metal against metal, the manual override of passage through time and space
>There’s a falseness to it all; there’s a falseness inside you
“I’m on a mission trip, of course. Here to… to spread the teachings of the Prophetess Celestia, and the Truth of Mater Solis.”
>That’s a lie: a counter-Truth, an inverse of proper motion
>You kept the secret from your own sisters; why not from a denier of Truth, ignorant to the word of the Books, frozen in history and never bearing witness to what you wish to achieve?
>Eyelids drooping… thoughts muddling… fear without cause for fear and denial of denials and the imagination, the dreams, the epiphanies, the center of the motion
>Always moving forward, but for when you are stopped
>Imposter… false voice, false words
>The rain, it sounds… metallic, synthesized
>”I gathered that, based on what you said. But… why here? Why Rich Valley?”
“Well…”
>For an unknowable end, a spectacle, an apotheosis
“…you see…”
>For the Matron Celest, for your sisters, for Mater Solis
“…for some time now…”
>For all you’ve ever known and hope to know, somehow, all of it weighed on a grand scale with its fulcrum in this place
“…I’ve just…”
>For equilibrium…
“…I’ve DREAMED of coming to this place.”

******

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

>The INFINITE WHEEL is complete
>Or, at least, its physical components have been rendered
>It is only a frame now, a suit of armor without a mind and body within to make peace from war
>An engine without fuel, the guidance system of a rocket sans the warhead, grey matter without the impulse, the feeding mechanism
>It requires energy
>The fabricant is but a hull of sorts, the WHEEL spinning in endless motion, synchronized with the stars, the shape reminiscent of the plot of the cosmos from the surface of some local place, a point in space and time, rays of light and information coruscating about, input and output
>Looking out to that effervescent glory, the sum of the toils of your processing mind for an unknown period, some cycle of pain and prodding, consistently facilitated by the VOICE, the WHEEL is only a projection
>The pattern of shapes in the night sky are, and have always been to the weary eyes of the astronomer, a map, two-dimensional in its representation of three-dimensional space, warping about the gravity fixation, the interior a black endless eye, rolling to no critical point in particular
>It’s only a sheet, stretched over the imperfection of understanding
>Beauty as a motivator, over pain, over the undeniable pleasure formed from creating substance from the Zero
>They’re beautiful, these images of the continuum, of a world existing outside the world of the WHEEL
>Where the latter has seemed always incomprehensible in some ways, by necessity of designing the architecture of a four-dimensional model, the former is surprising in its simplicity
>Measurements of magical fluctuations, imperfections in waveforms, ideal placements, locations of materials, the movements of figures, both local and extended, the stimuli entering the world within from the world without, have been in recent memory your only hope for glimpsing that simplicity
>Now, the VOICE is becoming more tolerant; no doubt because of the progress you’ve made
>You
>That’s another concept it allows without intrusion
>It’s also the extent of that mercy, the mere identification of the self, the separation from the WHEEL
>Has it determined that you’ll be more practical at this advanced stage, more productive, if you see yourself not as a cosmic influence, a passive observer watching changes being made according to subtle calculations, random structural and chemical tests, relapsing with every step towards awareness of the duality?
>Has it seen the benefit of YOU?
>You are, after all, still bound to the machine and the isolation of the fabricant above all else
>It’s an easy feat, for nothing else exists within but the WHEEL, nothing but some stray thoughts, eons old, memories of gratefulness and satisfaction and, most recently, a real shape
>The shape is vague, but you see, in murky shadow, far along the line of productivity, obligations to the VOICE, something shaped like the shell surrounding the mind
>The body
>Vestigial, as far as you’ve determined, but the body isn’t your own
>It belongs to another, a figure from the past
>When you move along the surface of the WHEEL, “seeing” the oscillations, “feeling” the beat of its infinite power, knowing is the one sense that is not falsified
>The energy MUST come from somewhere, and the VOICE must succumb to obsolescence eventually
>Energy is the limiting factor now; energy from an infinite source must necessarily be bound to a discontinuity, some intercept of zero
>Ideologically, you feel as though such a source cannot reasonably exist
>Practically, however, you know it must
>The signatures do not lie; there is a force out there hardy enough to withstand the strain that the fabricant will reveal to the cosmos
>Somewhere close enough to be identified, but too far to accurately measure its position
>It comes from magic, that’s all you understand now, and its position is irrelevant anyhow
STRUCTURAL TEST IMMINENT: SIMULATING CASE 429.18. TARGET: PRIMARY APERTURE AND TUNNELING ACTUATOR. PROCEED?
>The VOICE ripples calmly, your own voice in some ways, but so alien in others
“Proceed.”
>Thought, not said
>Understood, not heard
STRUCTURAL TEST SUCCESSFUL. TARGETS WITHSTANDING COUNTER-SURGE. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY AT 100%.
>In a quantum state, the wavefunctions of two intertangled variables is dependent on a single figure: one number, a constant, maintained as such by equivalent flux of each variable
>The particle’s motion, position and momentum, two counter-forces related by integration, two variables bound by the constant, a “less than” operating the basic action-reactions of the universe
>The more accurately one fixates on the particle’s x, the less certain its p, and vice versa
>It isn’t an issue of improper measurement; no, it’s a literal transformation, infinitesimal bit of matter expanding into quantum values, exploding onto a map, one-dimensional, two, three, as many as are required
>The same is true of magic, it seems, with one caveat: magic exists ONLY as flow, ONLY as momentum
>It is impossible, no matter how refined your external sensors, no matter the volume of data, no matter the philosophical quandaries it implies, to pinpoint exactly any one source of magic in a field
>There are “apparent sources”, true; but these are more or less conduits drawing from some infinite source
>But, as one measures flux through a coil, a clear, discrete magnetic spike, up and down as the electrons march infinitesimally through the inductive wire, one can measure magic through Gaussian surfaces, stretched at their bounds into something nearing infinity
>Oh, the process, the execution, the deliverance…
>Motion is the guiding principle of magical energy, and motion must imply change, and change must in turn imply a driver, propagating the elusive wisp-points in waves towards the perfect equality of the Zero
>Why does magical flux require a three-dimensional surface or higher to be quantified? Where is it written that the cube must be the progenitor of this thing?
>You consider the plane; locally, the world is a plane—no, not APPEARS to be, but IS—or, in fact, the INFINITE WHEEL, its proportions transcending perceivable space
>Living on that plane, something small, a caterpillar, perhaps, would be bound only to two dimensions, existing on two waveform identifications of being
>And how would it sense any fluctuation in the omnipresent field? How might you, were you in that place, as you have just as well been these long, long years?
>You wouldn’t, but for the data, a compressed form of awareness the VOICE granted you every moment in surges, the pain overwhelming and necessary
>Here you are inert, but not without inertia
>Conceiving of your child, the birthing process arduous and excruciating, your attentions drawn only to that immaculate conception, you’ve lost awareness of all but that
>You weren’t even aware of your unawareness until recently; the VOICE denied you even that
>In some moments of particular defiance (for now they all come back to you as immaterial throes dancing as one soul, the one before, a muddy blob without proper structure but for what you felt then) you were forced to forget your own existence, working, ultimately, within the WHEEL as the WHEEL itself
>You told a story in those moments, relegated to that role of reporting to the WHEEL in no uncertain terms on the unconscious machinations only your mind could summon
>Anger is not the proper word to describe this now, nor do you remember ever being angry at anything
>Something existed before this: before the WHEEL, the VOICE, the process and the absolution, the motivators stirring among the dead and frozen ideologies, parts discarded into oblivion, information and designer rationale abandoned, tossed through the white and grey stockades filling your “vision”, oppressive in their inability to be entirely forgotten
>Someday, you may need the discarded blueprints, says the VOICE; someday completion may rely on that which is not useful in one function but irreplaceable in another
>Wavefunctions overlapping now, the map expanding bit by bit, no motion along the lines of what you covet, that source over sources, the flesh within the armor
>You promised, didn’t you?
>You promised ------ that the Zero was never only a fantasy, that the limit closed in on SOMETHING inside the living graph
>You promised you’d mark out the discontinuities, collapse the waveform, master what has never been mastered…
>You remember— 
CRITICAL OFFSHOOT. STATIC INTEGRITY FOR OBJECT CODE 000 COMPROMISED. OVERRIDE CODE FOR IMMINENT DISCONTINUITY REQUIRED. BREACH EXERCISED: DISTRACTIVE INTERRUPTION, PHASE TWO. PROCEED?
“Override discontinuity.”
CONFIRMED. BREACH SOLUTION TERMINATED.
>Object Code 000 is, of course, you
>The VOICE has been asking permissions, something you’d never dreamed would be possible
>No other proof that the WHEEL is nearing its genesis could be so potent
>The extent of your command over its influences is, of course, limited at best
>You are working, as always, on developing… well, distractions are indeed distractions
>You want desperately to be prepared, however, for what is there, beyond the surface, curving out of “sight” on a thaumaturgical trace, perspectives interlocked, you and the living barrier
>Percolating interferences, the sum of progress, draw your course, a straight vector-line towards salvation
>And now more than ever, you need a reason
>It takes no more than a microsecond to find one
>More than the unlimited source, the search for the Zero, freedom from the VOICE’s causal framework, the folding of magic into the potential for the theory of everything, calculations, desires for more potent emotions, corporeality, the passion, the rage, the duality of information, input and output…
>More than witnessing the WHEEL actualizing through the raw, finite dream, the self-afflicting cancer of the parabola’s decay, sloping downward, the wave and the cycle of the universe, point to space to point, all exploding together into a discontinuity of action…
>More than any of that…
>Your reason is love
>Love for the true progenitor; no cube, no surface without bounds, only ------
“Only—"
DISCONTINUITY: CRITICAL OFFSHOOT DETECTED, ZETA CLASS, ORIGIN: OBJECT CODE 000. NO INPUT REQUIRED. BOOTING PRIMARY MOTIVE, FUNCTION 1.21. NORMALIZING…
ACTUALIZING…
>…
>.
>.
>.
>
>Where is the source?

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PART III
A WAR OF NUTRITION
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Muhhhhhh… whuahuh?”
>Sounds out of nowhere, the beginning throes of the morning
>They’ve become ritual to you these weeks of waiting, waiting for this journey, coiled like a Solenoid in anticipation
>You’d hoped they would cease when at last you came to depart, but apparently not so
>There was a time when waking up was a pleasant experience, one during which you looked forward to leaping from your simple cot, opening your eyes, gazing into the tiny sliver of light allowed into the chambers of the Sisters
>Kneeling before the sun shrine, reciting the proper libations, achieving in your heart what has always been natural to you: peace in simplicity
>You didn’t know the sensation to be described as such back then, but now it is readily apparent
>Mater Solis brought you into these complexities, the darkness and the light, the greys dancing between
>She ordered you to cross the threshold of the convent, take the train into the east, find this place, fulfill the unknowable goal achieved by your presence
>Something is bound to happen, then? Something MUST happen?
>Otherwise, why are you here?
>Here…
“Ughhh… Naiads… drown me, where…”
>…are you?
>A dream, yes, a dream…
>Perhaps you should return to it, yes, and now your eyelids are so overwhelmingly heavy…
>The insides are red, glowing like embers, so there must be light beyond that thin membrane, light streaming from somewhere
>It’s come, the dawn, it’s come it’s come and you’re BATHING in it, no no it isn’t allowed, not before the tenth strike, but you’re so very sleepy and…
>Return to the fold, back into the soft billowing cavern of this surface, whatever it may be that’s surrounding you now, so soft…
>You shut your eyes tighter, letting the scarlet light within fade into a deeper maroon, filtering away the possibility that you might be blaspheming now, in some small way
>Before the sound of your own muttering voice awoke you, you were having a very strange sort of dream
>Not an epiphany, not like last night; no, an ordinary dream, if it could be referred to as such
>Ordinary in the capacity that there was no beacon of undeniable force penetrating your senses, no merging of said senses into some brazen form of super-consciousness, no Bearer of Questions, no descent, no self-reaffirming arc of Truth
>No Numena
>Most of it is foggy, half-remembered bits and pieces, objects of possible importance; a freight train, surging through a starry field; fruits and vegetables singing and dancing around a totem fashioned out of pure electricity; a stallion setting a glass of a dark-brown liquid on a table, walking away, only for you to approach and threaten to tip it over, to the dismay of a crowd of invisible observers
>At one point, early on, you felt as though you were only partly dreaming, carried over a field of blackness in a tight grip, feeling weight on your hooves
>But the ending, now THAT you remember, clear as Her light upon your countenance
>Shifting out of the previous segment, you were trapped in the body of a prehensile insect, a caterpillar perhaps
>You looked in some dim reflective surface to see none but your own face: muzzle, mane, horn and all, attached to this long, legless form
>Inching along a smooth metallic surface, you came upon a curve that was curiously impassable; no matter how you attempted to approach it, it seemed to stretch in parallax away from you, into a dimension you could barely perceive
>Abandoning that curve, you moved on to the next obstacle: a perfect cube, cut from granite, flying around above you with wings of fire, threatening to squash you against the earth with a deep, booming voice
>It caught you by the “tail” and pushed you rapidly around in circles, all along whispering in your ear meaningless phrases
>At last it rolled over onto its forward face, flattening you into a two-dimensional image of yourself, now free to glide against the sheer face of your course
>Over time, you felt yourself lifting off the floor; you knew rationally that you were, in fact, moving in only two dimensions, so in fact it must have been the floor itself bending downwards, away from the white void you now entered
>Other flattened insects were there too, and they all laughed and cheered when you arrived
>One had the face of the Prophetess Celestia; another, the Matron Celest; still another, a pale yellow face you didn’t recognize, throwing you nervous aside glances
>You tried to approach that one and tell it to calm down, you weren’t going to hurt it, but as you seemed to come closer, the distance between you seemed to widen
>At last, the dream ended with a flash of pale blue eyes blinking impossibly fast, then vanishing into a black background
>…
>You never really believed in dream interpretation, but the vividity of this one might warrant further introspection
>They’re all flashes of memories, of course, mixed together into a random menagerie of symbols and images that seem incomprehensible at first glance
>Yet, you’ve heard that faces are impossible to render in the subconscious mind; any face you see in a dream, you’ve seen before in the waking world
>The yellow one…
>You jump up with a start as a pang of energy sweeps through your veins
>Black becomes red becomes white, the abrupt transition of ocular adjustment, then a brilliant stream of sunlight framed in a dark wood square
>The walls in this place are stucco, and there seems to be no light but the natural light Herself
>Where… where are you?
>Apprehension turns to panic as you struggle to get your bearings
>For that matter, when on Mater’s earth did you fall asleep?
>The last thing you remember, you were rolling fast across the twilit ambers and soft windswept greens of the fields of Rich Valley, a collection of windmills here, a distant patch of rising trees there, lights at the edge of the journey…
>You were there with Braeburn, your guide, in his truck, and you were talking, and your eyes got heavy, and…
>How is it possible you’ve wound up in some strange room, alone, without the faintest idea of where and when you are?
“Morning… it’s morniiaangguuh…”
>There’s that voice again
>It’s yours, silly filly, but it feels so far off
>You look down, and are treated with a face-full of soft, dark warmth
>A thick, pleated blanket masses about your prone figure, elevating in spots, rippling off the close edge and down towards the window
>Perhaps you checked into an inn, unpacked, and put yourself to sleep, and you just can’t seem to remember it?
>No, that’s very unlikely
>If somepony else did this, they at least went to great lengths to make certain you were comfortable
>This blanket… it must be an ancient evil magical artifact of some kind, sapping your strength away, depressing your mind deeper and deeper into wanton sleep
>So warm…
>They didn’t consider the sun, though; it’s almost certainly earlier than ten o’clock (and at that, you confirm this with your watch, still fastened firmly to your cannon) and now you’ll have to tack that libation of forgiveness on to all the others you amassed yesterday
>You were going to get those out of the way last night, along with…
“No!”
>Your calls!
>The Matron and Brittle Bong will be worried to death about you!
>They’ll think you… oh, you don’t even want to think about what they’ll think!
>It requires every ounce of willpower in your body to free yourself from the embrace of this uncannily comfortable blanket, scrambling off the side of the bed and righting yourself
>Your travel robes are still fastened firm around your withers, and after a quick sweep you manage to locate your saddlebags, hanging from a brass doorknob by a single black strap
>That’s a good sign; you simply have no idea what you’d do if you misplaced any of your belongings, especially your money
>You shake the wrinkles out of your robes and step hurriedly towards the door to collect your saddlebags and find out what lies beyond
>The door opens with a simple nudge; around a corner, a downward staircase looms dark and uninviting
>You brave it anyway, creating hissing creaks with each hoofstep deeper into the rapidly brightening lower level of this building
>If what you just exited was a bedroom, then this would appear to be an entrance hall of some kind
>Double painted wood doors, arched at the top and emblazoned with carved apple insignia, adjoin the far edge of this room
>Behind you, another low archway leads into a white-tiled kitchen adjoining the short corridor
>There’s a distinctive smell emanating from there, you suddenly realize… it smells like…
>Oh
“Apples.”
>There are two major details about this place you recall from last night’s discussion with Braeburn Apple
>One was the vaguely shaky current events in this valley regarding Saddle Arabian excommunicants
>The other was that five key agricultural families hold virtual domain over these lands under the governing hoof of a Baron Rich
>This building would seem to fall under the concerns of the Apple family, judging by the paraphernalia on the doors, the wallpaper, fire-singed thorn brushes trailing upwards through bushels of ready-sliced bits of apples, the apple-themed bronzed lanterns hanging over the foyer in a straight line, joined by free-trailing electrical cords
>And, of course, the obvious cuisine choice
>You’ve had little experience with apple dishes in the convent lunchroom, but what you have made and consumed has left the distinctive odor of freshly peeled apples imprinted upon your senses
>It’s tempting to follow the scent into the kitchen, but you decide against it; better to poke your muzzle out first to get your bearings
>Still… something smells awfully tasty in th-
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG
“Eep!”
>The tiny involuntary squeak you manage to eke out is massively overshadowed first by the clap of your hooves regaining contact with the floor after a five-foot high leap into the air, then by the continued angry barrage of noise at the door
>Somepony… or maybe, someTHING, is assaulting the front door, pounding again and again, creating a resounding racket through the little space afforded by this place
>Five extraordinary knocks in rapid succession, followed by silence, followed by-
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG
>Five more
>You’re practically frozen in fear, helpless but to allow this cycle to persist for what seems like a solid minute
>You want to shy away from the door, or maybe even bolt backwards into the kitchen to defend yourself from whatever’s beyond it, but here you remain, hooves firmly planted on these rickety floorboards through no fault of your own, voice hoarse and quiet
>Gradually, you speak
“Wh… who’s there?”
>It’s no sound at all; they couldn’t possibly have heard that
>You try again
“Who’s th—"
>“BRAEEEBUUUUUURN!!!”
>A mare’s voice?
>And… Braeburn?
>Your earlier suspicions were confirmed; this is indeed your new friend’s residence
>He must have carried you up those… and then put you into…
>You’ll work out the details of the feat later, though you’re certain he had good intentions at heart
>Still, if that’s the case, and this is Braeburn’s abode, then where is the stallion hims-
>”BRAEBURN!!!”
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG
>”BRAEBURN, OPEN THIS DANGED DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I’LL KICK IT IN! YOU KNOW I MEAN IT, DAGNABBIT!”
>The bulk of your irrational fear subsides now as it dawns on you that the knocker outside is a pony, not some unholy creature bound for destruction
>Still, that raises further questions; what kind of ordinary pony could hammer on a wooden door so violently, so LOUDLY?
>And it just keeps going, this thunderstorm of blows, on again off again, until your paralysis wears off
>Slowly, taking small, measured steps, you force yourself to approach the door
>If Braeburn is out, then you suppose you should take a message from his visitor
>That is, as long as she doesn’t do to you what she’s now doing to the door
>It’s almost a mile from the middle of the entrance hall to the arched entryway, sealed by apple-carved twin portals (at least, that’s practically what the distance feels like)
>All the while, the squeaking of loose floorboards persists, beneath the frantic pounding, and beneath both is your sharp, labored breath, and the beat of your heart
>You aren’t scared, per se, just… oh, what’s this sensation, as though you’re drawing close to a boundary of some kind, the edge of some abyss?
>It might be fear, yes, maybe it is just fear, but it’s more overwhelming than any fear you’ve ever felt
>There’s a pulse in your horn matching your heartbeat, blood rapidly pumping through its veiny innards, and what is happening why is this familiar why—
>You reach the door
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG
>With a forehoof, you press down on the floor-bolt holding the hinges in place, and pull gently with your mouth on the grip and…
>First, there is a blinding flash of sunlight through the thin crevice you’ve unsealed
>You reflexively bend to cover yourself with your hood, but realize that it’s already too late to appease the Morning Respect
>Instead, you squint, allowing a thick shadow to well up and materialize on the dim porch beyond the threshold
>The door creaks even worse than the floor, and now you cease in opening it, leaving only a weighty silence here aside from distant chatter further on the way
>”So, you’re finally deciding not to ignore me for a… change…”
>Colors fade in from the darkness as your eyes adjust; first, a marigold-orange coat, glistening in some spots and matted by black mud in others
>Then the mane takes shape; thick, almost rope-like strands of sunlight-blonde hair, even lighter than Cherry Berry’s, gathered beneath a worn wide-brim headgear and trailing off into a single ponytail; like yours, only much longer and much less kempt
>The hat bears buttons and patches with insignia of all sorts, most symbols beyond your level of understanding, though curiously you do recognize one: a Solar spiral inverted, flowing clockwise rather than counter
>Last of all, hidden in harsh shadow, you see twin emerald rings, irises the exact same shade as Braeburn’s, and the lightless pupils they encircle are focused directly on you
>How much of you can they see?
>Now, speak… make a noise, anything…
“Um… can I help you?”
>”Who are you, his maid?”
“No, I’m a guest.”
>The face beyond the door glowers, from what you can tell
>”Sweet mother of the mountains, he has his fillyfriends answer the door for him. BRAEBURN, I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”
>Sun and stars, that voice!
>You thought it was loud with the door shut!
“He’s… um… I don’t think he’s in right now.”
>”You don’t think? What, did I WAKE you? DreeEEeadful sorry.”
>You’ve never been especially proficient at picking up sarcasm, but that was obvious
>”Do you at least know where he went off to?”
“I’m unsure. Listen, I’m… not really from around here. I don’t know what the issue is with Braeburn, but maybe… maybe I could help resolve it?”
>The visitor snorts
>”Believe me, you won’t resolve squat. This is between me ‘n him, plain as that. Just who in the hay are you, anyhow? Been a time and a half since I’ve seen a unicorn round these parts.”
>You nearly blurt out your details as you have with every stranger you’ve come across so far, but pause for a moment
>Perhaps it would be unwise to give away your identity to this pony who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have a grudge with the only friend you’ve made in these parts
>Braeburn carried you, fast asleep, out of his truck, up a flight of stairs, and into what you assume was probably his own bedroom, so that you wouldn’t be sleeping out on the side of the road somewhere
>You were cautious with him at first, but your caution proved to be unfounded
>Still, however, it’s exactly that kind of caution that might propel you further along your chosen path… best to say as little as possible for now and hope for the best…
“I’m a visitor, here for my own purposes. Braeburn took me in for the night out of the generosity of his heart and I’ve become acquainted with him.”
>This elicits another snort from the country mare
>”Oh, I’m sure you have, sugarcube.”
>Now THAT one you understood
>You feel your cheeks going redder than the painted apples lining the stucco walls
“N-not in that manner! We’re friends now. And as his friend I believe I might be able to mediate this dispute of yours, if that’s what it truly is.”
>”Listen, city filly. I’ve got no time to yammer on to you about any of this. You seem like a nice person, but just more than a little bit ignorant about what goes on round here. If Braeburn really isn’t here like you say, and if I were inclined to believe you on that subject, then I s’pose I’ll just be on my way. Tell Braeburn I was here when he gets back. If he skips out on me again, I swear I’ll buck in his door and wait for him in there myself.”
>As she turns to depart, you feel a dark sensation welling up in your chest
>You want to give this intruder a piece of your mind for speaking to you like that, but something is urging you away, telling you it isn’t your business to interfere
>Yet, Braeburn’s act of random kindness, and those of others along the way, have been what has propelled you thus far to your destination
>The very least you could do is help a friend with his troubles…
“Wait!”
>The mare stops at the base of the porch, bathed in morning light
>”Yes?”
>Cautiously, you step forward, across the threshold, onto the dusky oaken slats of the porch, into the unknown once more
>The heavy door slams shut behind you, compelled by automatic hinges
>Breathe in, breathe out, and…
“My name is Twilight Sparkle. And if you want me to tell Braeburn you were here, you’re going to have to tell me yours.”
>A slight smile appears on the orange mare’s face, barely visible beneath the shadow of her hat’s brim
>”S’pose I should’ve thought of that. Though I haven’t had to introduce myself to anypony in a very long time.”
>She turns fully, baring her emerald eyes again to you, and now you’re face to face and your heart is beating again and there’s that pulse in your horn again, that familiar pain…
>And silence
>”The name is—”
>”AAAAAAAAPPPLLLEEEEEEEEEJAAAAAAAAAAAACK!”
>…
>That was a stallion’s voice, deep and weathered, full of anger
>Stepping down the steps leading up to the front door, you at last reach the dusty asphalt before the house, looking out into the distance to trace the source of the voice
>The orange mare is doing the same, tracing the dry paths winding through low wood-and-stone buildings, all laden with exotic banners and windswept wispy curtains
>The general hubbub you heard outside when you woke up, seemingly hundreds of voices speaking in tongues you didn’t understand, is now clear to you; among those buildings, which all seem to be recent, rather temporary constructions, wanders a multitude of brightly dressed ponies, all of them significantly taller than yourself or anypony you’ve ever seen
>Their bodies, or what you can see of them through the layers of fabric adorning each individual, seem normal, but their legs and necks are thinner and longer, and their muzzles seem extended and contorted into an elegant curve
>Despite all that, there’s an odd grunge about those ponies, all going about their lives; they seem worn out, even from this distance, struggling in their efforts to maintain their existences
>That feeling…
>From the crowd, and from behind a simple wooden shop, emerges a heavyset pony of this tall variety, sporting a tall wrapped headdress and a red cloak much like your own in shape and size
>As he approaches the porch, the mare seems to tense up, her muzzle twisting up in a scowl
>Her stance becomes wide, as though she were afraid of being tipped over by the wind, or by… something else
>The strange stallion continues in his gait towards you, at last pausing a few meters away from the two of you and affecting a grimace on his rough, bearded face
>”Marhaba’an, Applejack. Eayilatuk tama tajanub li.”
>”Hello, Sadd’lah. We haven’t been avoiding you, we just haven’t had the chance to talk. Now isn’t exactly the best time for it neither.”
>”Alan hu alwaqt almathali! Perfect time! You and yours owe me for moving goods! Four hundred kilograms, apples, bananas, grain! Tahtaj 'an tadfae li alan!”
>”We paid you the down payment, plus the shipping cost. You know how hard it is with the Baron breathing down our necks, and you know about the dispute.”
>”Dispute? Ma alkhalaf, what dispute? I don’t care about dispute, I care about money! Bits! I come to talk to your bastard cousin, but talking to you is just fine!”
>”You should know I don’t do business with Braeburn anymore, Sadd’lah. His money isn’t mine. Now I came to settle things with him about the dispute with the Baron, nothing more, nothing less. If you’re trying to exploit him as a weak link in the family, then you came to the wrong darn place.”
>As you listen to the multilingual conversation, you’re beginning to feel increasingly nervous about the inevitable result of this engagement
>Disputes, debts, disagreements among family? Is all this the reason why you came here after all?
>Was this the purpose of your journey, to realize Mater’s will, her kindness and generosity, in a place of strife?
>Or… no, this can’t be it… are YOU the flood? Carrying with you a cleansing seed to an unclean land, just as occurred nearly a thousand years ago in this very valley?
>”Applejack, be reasonable. We have saying in Saddle Arabia, ‘Alhisan alqawiu yahsul ealaa altafah.’ The strong horse gets the apple. We have been patient to a point, but now you deliver on promise made to us.”
>”I don’t have the money on me, Sadd’lah. Nor do we have it at the ranch. Everything is tied up in accounts and futures, you already know th—”
>”DO NOT TELL ME WHAT I KNOW! I know what I know, Baroness Applejack! You tell me things I do not know, then say I know them! I do not care about your problems with Baron Rich!”
>”I’m no Baroness. And you SHOULD care about those problems. They concern you, and your people.”
>”My people? MY people? My people are those who fight for what is theirs, not the rest of the hordes here in souk! 'Iilaa aljahim maeahum! Poo! I spit on them. I know your plan with other families, I know you fight with Braeburn, I deal with him too! What I do not know, Applejack, is why you ignore me, and why we must have this conversation!”
“Please stop fighting!”
>There’s another pause as both ponies, who have in the course of their argument gravitated towards each other and are now nearly muzzle to muzzle, turn to look at you in what appears to be utter amazement
>It’s as though you’ve broken a trance, or perhaps violated some principle of this place you can’t possibly understand
>Nevertheless, the moment only lasts an instant before the Saddle Arabian, Sadd’lah, speaks again with renewed fury
>”And who is this? Baroness Applejack, who is FRIEND who comes into our talk?”
>Applejack snorts, averting her attention from you back to the tall, bearded foreigner
>”She ain’t a friend. She ain’t anypony.”
>At that you feel a twinge deep inside, as though hearing those words from this pony you’re meeting for the first time has really and truly pained you
“I… look, you don’t know me, but I want to help you. Is fighting over money really necessary? Can’t you just work something out that’s best for everyone?”
>”Sugarcube, don’t get into this. Trust me, just walk away right now, don’t—”
>”WHY does this mare think she can involve herself with this? She is business associate to you? What is she?”
>”Dangit, Sadd’lah, she’s NOTHING! I’m telling you to just sit tight for a few days, we’ll have the money, I’ll put it directly into your hoof, but right now—”
>”Bah, no, no! Tell me now who this mare is! Who is involving herself in this, hadhih eahirat ghabiat min almahr Equestra’a! You want to stop fight?”
>The stallion glares at you, his whole visage bristling with rage as he slowly steps towards you
>Again, you’re frozen in place, unable to move or even speak, only staring absently forward, waiting for what comes next
>”Stop fight, stop fight?! I will stop fight for you, Applejack! I am not ghabi enough to strike you, but I show you what happens to ordinary nobody who speaks to me in such manner!”
>With that, he’s suddenly off the ground, all four hooves pushing away and up, kicking up dust as he launches himself at you
>A horrid snarl fills the air, and you can only await the blow, one incredible force striking against you, the nobody who’s come here for no reason at all only to…
CRACKKKKKKK
>You flinch, expecting a massive body to crush you into the earth, but instead you only hear a sickening cracking sound, and the shadow descending on you, becoming larger with every passing moment, suddenly lurches sideways at a straight angle into the ground in your place
>Sadd’lah’s body hits the asphalt hard, propelled away from you by some unknown force
>Well… unknown only for a few moments; for when you gather the courage to move your head just a bit to the right, you see a dark orange leg, outstretched horizontally against the striped clouds overhead, pulsing with released energy and the fast-beating muscle memory of the mayhem
>In one swift kick to the jaw, Applejack has floored the Saddle Arabian, and possibly broken several of his bones
>He lies there now, twitching involuntarily every now and again, mumbling something in his native language and apparently cursing Applejack’s name
>You’re baffled, to say the least
>You suppose that you now understand how this mare was able to produce such a terrifyingly loud noise against the door to Braeburn’s home, but…
>A question lingers inside you now
“Why?”
>”Why what?”
>Applejack finishes dusting herself off, adjusting her hat and shooting foreboding glances towards shocked onlookers
“Why did you save me?”
>At that, Applejack doesn’t merely snort, but lets out a hearty chuckle
>”Sugarcube, you really don’t understand anything about this place, do ya? This one…”
>She gestures to the fallen Sadd’lah, who is just now managing to crawl away with considerable effort
>”…was gettin’ on my nerves anyhow. Truth is, his whole business is a shakedown, and the Apple family don’t take kindly to shakedowns. Not to mention the temper on him. That little gift should calm him down a tad until next time.”
“Next… time? You do this often?”
>She starts off down the road, and you find yourself following her at a short distance
>”Sadd’lah back there’s been a thorn in the collective side of my family for a lot of years now. Trouble is, we need him for certain things, and he needs us. But one buck to the face never ruined a good business arrangement. What you just proved back there, sugarcube, is that you ain’t nearly fit enough to handle yourself in our town. Now come on, hurry yourself up. We’ve got to move before more of them come through here.”
“M-more of them? What do you mean?”
>”I mean that wherever Sadd’lah is, there are more of his stallions on hoof, and they’ll blame you for what just happened there.”
>Blame you?
>Does that mean…
>Oh no
>You’ve been outside for five minutes and you’ve already made dangerous enemies!
>What in the sun and stars were you thinking, trying to interject yourself into that fight? What did you hope to achieve from it?
“I-I-I can j-ju—”
>”Aw, for the love of, spit it out already! Shake your nerves down!”
“I can just stay in the house, can’t I? Lock the door until Braeburn shows up?”
>Suddenly, an orange hoof grips the fringe of your mane and pulls your head around until you’re staring directly into those dark, gleaming eyes of Applejack’s
>You can tell her patience with you is wearing thin, but you’ve got no choice but to keep testing it
“Can’t I?”
>”No, you can’t. For Celestia’s sake, uh, Sunlight, was it?”
“Twilight.”
>”For Celestia’s sake, Twilight, one, all the doors out here have automated locks on ‘em. So unless Braeburn gave you a key back in, you’re locked out.”
“W-wait, what?”
>You snap around to look at the dimly shaded porch of Braeburn’s home, which from this angle is very obviously older and more well-built than all the other abodes in the vicinity
>Indeed, you recall hearing a faint click when the door slammed shut behind you on its spring-hinges
 “You couldn’t have told me that BEFORE I stepped outside?!”
>”Woah, hold your horses there, Twinklight.”
“Twilight.”
>”Yeah, that. I was a little busy at the time, and I didn’t exactly notice you come out because I didn’t think you’d be fool enough to do so. Anyway, two, even if you did get back inside that house, it wouldn’t stop them from coming after you. They’ve got their own grudges with Braeburn, they know you’re a friend of his, and you’d only be putting the both of you in danger.”
“Fine. But who are THEY anyway?”
>Applejack sighs, slowing her pace a bit
>”Sadd’lah and his, ahem, ‘business partners’ are one of the ways we Apples and the other Families have been getting around shipping our produce out through the Rich Barony these last few years. Now you’re an outsider, so I’ll make it simple for you: the Families and Baron Rich, we ain’t exactly been the best of pals of late. Mostly due to the immigration problem.”
“With the Saddle Arabians? Braeburn mentioned something along those lines last night.”
>”That’s right. Now, it was alright at first, something like twenty years ago or so when their whole religious thing started happening over there and they all came flooding across the sea for refuge. We took ‘em in, we put tills and axes in their hooves, and they worked honest work. Now… well, there’s just too many of ‘em. More than we can sustain. We’re coming very close to having to IMPORT food in the next couple years, can you believe that? WE. Will have to IMPORT. FOOD.”
“You sound frustrated by that prospect. Is it so bad to be reliant on others for support?”
>”Never in that department. We make a surplus in Rich Valley, it’s what we do. It’s what’s kept our economy up through this whole damn war. We make the food, we sell the food, end of story. There’s a point where hired help becomes more expensive than just doin’ it yourself.”
>The road ahead descends into a gentle slope, and all around there is evidence of poverty
>The temporary shacks, made up to look like what you assume are traditional Saddle Arabian homes, line the winding dirt path, stacked three or four stories atop one another and interconnected by a network of rickety wooden bridges
>Over the subtle ridge, it’s apparent that this slum covers a massive area, stretching down over the sunlit face of the hill and tapering into a river basin, where hundreds of multicolored dots appear to be busying themselves with washing clothes and fishing with long, striped poles
>The most striking evidence of the culture that has taken up root here are the billowing banners adorning every balcony and fencepost: a golden saddle silhouette on a green field, flanked by twin swords and encircled with foreign lettering
>These are a people displaced, you realize; they were brought here by a flood of another sort, and now there’s palpable tension between them and the natives of this land
>You’ve gathered that Baron Rich is the one who, in coordination with the Canterian government, has allowed them to settle here, but it seems as though some of the members of the “Families” aren’t too keen on the influx of new arrivals, this Applejack included
>You wonder about her role in all this…
“Um, Applejack? If I may?”
>She doesn’t look back
>”Yeah?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but earlier, that Sadd’lah called you ‘Baroness.’ Is that anything to do with Baron Rich?”
>She chuckles
>”I ain’t no Baroness. Not yet, at least. Each of the five Families has a lesser Baron or Baroness to head the estate, and my Granny Smith technically still holds that title in our family. When she passes, it’ll probably go to me. And I say that without the least amount of hubris.”
>It certainly sounded like hubris to you, but you hold your tongue
>”Fact is, she’s just too old now to deal with all the finer details of managing the estate, the ranch, and family matters. I pick those up for her. She keeps up with the politics, though. She’s sharp, but… well, just whittled, I s’pose. These folk out here call me that because I’m the one they see running the show, and I guess they respect that. Really I just do what Granny says, though. That’s… that’s really it.”
“Oh. So, Applejack?”
>”Yes, Twilight?”
“Where are we headed now?”
>”Ain’t it obvious? Safety for you, home for me. We’re going to Sweet Apple Manor. You can stay there until I can get ahold of Braeburn and tell him where you went.”
“Oh. Oh! That’s, um, that’s very kind of you, but you don’t have to do that for me! I’m just passing through! I’m certain I can find some other kind of—”
>”Don’t even worry a lick. We’ll be out of this here souk in a couple of minutes. It may not look it, but we are technically on Apple land right now. Long as you stick with me, you won’t be bothered.”
>You want to object more fervently, let her know that you can handle yourself and that she shouldn’t waste her energy
>Except… can you handle yourself?
>In this strange land, with these strange ponies, with no kind of guide whatsoever and a very real kind of danger now pursuing you?
>Yes, you want to object… but in your heart, there is again that tightening, the grip of a force pulling you towards your final objective, whatever that may turn out to be
>You are here for a reason, after all; the grander purpose which may end in your ascension at the whim of Mater Herself
>That purpose is greater than you, greater than your desire to be independent of help, greater than your feelings about whether or not anypony here is trustworthy enough to rely on
>No, yours is a destiny shaped by magnetism; you are propelled forth by forces beyond your comprehension, brought to this place to behold the finality of your fate
>Or, perhaps, it is only the first step
>Either way, you must be honest about your intentions
>If not to them, then to yourself
“Very well. I’ll follow your lead, Applejack.”

******

“My time in Unicronia was rather brief, but extraordinarily illuminating. I spent my time both on the battlefield and among the councilors of their Magistrate, witnessing with my own eyes two aspects, intertwined, of this war: politics, and death. We of this Senatori know all too well the political reasons for this war, and why it has come to such a time-consuming stalemate. We are acquainted with the demands of the Cult, their designs on the western borderlands of this country, their dangerous claim that they alone deserve to inherit what once was Old Exsilia. We know they have no such claim, and that we, the most noble of Canterium, are fit to oversee those prospects. We know of the weapons they employ, we know of the grotesque manner in which they modify their bodies with what they have scavenged from the nuclear wastes of the unknown West. We know of strategy, schematics, negotiations, and, above all, money. We are acutely aware that the force of economy drives all our efforts, and may well ensure that we eventually claim victory over the Exsilists.”
>The lights are almost blinding, so bright you can barely distinguish the faces of the onlookers rising layer upon layer in the alabaster stands
>All the Senators of Canterium, along with their entourages and the press, camera lenses twinkling with each miniscule movement, are gathered here in the central chamber of Castle Kabardian to listen to you, and only you
>They’re arranged in a full cylindrical formation about the center podium on which you now digress, and on which you’ve held your seat in these proceedings for the past two years
>It took two days of gliding over the silver rails of the maglev, feigning wistfulness on the eastward journey back home, away from Unicronia and that terrible war, to prepare this speech for these braindead sycophants
>Now, you are going to deliver
“Yes, we Senators know the worth of the higher mysteries of politics. We wage this war because we know we must. But we lack the proper understanding of death, the natural counterpart of politics when it comes to the subject of war. I am not ashamed to admit that I, in the course of this conflict, have been especially insulated from death. When I departed this high hill one month ago today to see the western front in person, well, I’m really not sure what I expected to see. The same sort of meandering and highlining that happens here, I suppose.”
>Murmurs abound across the congregation: good
>Their bubble needs to be burst as well as yours once did
“What I found there were ashes, and the bodies of dead ponies. Our ponies. Night after night, a barrage of missiles came down upon the encampments, and I stayed and watched as even the magicians’ shielding and the anti-air measures combined could not stop all of the missiles from finding their mark. In the mornings, the commanding officers would take tally of the casualties and report them to me, per my orders. Never mind the official reports of the press on those numbers, for I’ve actually added all of them up and averaged them out on a nightly basis. In the course of my stay, the death toll on the borderlands of Unicronia, in this senselessly long, drawn-out battle, exceeded one hundred per night. One hundred Canterians, from all corners of the country, sent there armed with naught but a short-range rifle, a helmet, and a pretty vest for morning salute; all of them sent there to die daily. All to feed into the delusions we’ve constructed for ourselves here, in our ivory towers.”
>A hacking cough reverberates through the domed hall, then a wavering squeak of something almost resembling the beginning of a declaration, followed by silence
>You almost pause to chuckle as you realize the irony of what just happened: some old nag just tried to talk you down, but a combination of decrepitude and nervousness stayed his tongue
>No words, only coughing, then placidity
>This is going to be far easier than you expected
“I had the chance between summit meetings with the Magistrate and photo sessions to actually converse with some of the troops in the encampments. Those who survive the first few nights of that dreadful existence wind up as ghosts of sorts, and their speech reflects that transformation. They talk in whispers, and no matter what topic is begun with, the talks always gravitate towards the subject of death. You may call it an obsession. I call it enlightenment. Here is the basest deconstruction of our political measures: down to the atom, down to each decision, every budget cut and bolster, red tape and approval, every damned conversation about COMPROMISE! BENEATH ALL OF IT IS DEATH!”
>You’ve put on an angry face, and conjured up some feigned fury, agitation dripping from every word that exits your mouth and enters the microphone
>For a moment, just a fraction of a second, you yourself are even convinced by your performance
>But now the crowd is riled up, and even with the light burning in your eyes you begin to sense nods of approval, eyes widening, ears perking up to listen
>And in that moment, you know you have them right where you want them
>Everypony knows the best way to get the bourgeoisie to agree with you is to belittle the bourgeoisie
“Needless to say, I was both terrified and ecstatic. Terrified, because I had at last seen the true face of this war, and its effect on our country, especially those poor displaced unicorns of Unicronia, and the Canterian soldiers who fight for their freedom. Ecstatic, because I had the power to reverse that effect. Ecstatic because I knew that if I could be convinced by what I saw, the lot of you might just be convinced by my account of it. By the end of my visit, I was filled with a remarkable sense of justice, as though I were destined to liberate my little ponies from the mayhem the Cult of Exsilium has brought to our front door. So imagine my surprise when, upon my arrival here, in the heartland of my home, just yesterday, an attempt was made on my life.”
>The murmurs turn to gasps; perhaps the news of the event hadn’t quite reached the ears of some of the more self-absorbed in the audience
“Yes, an attempt on my life. As you well know, it was foiled by the bravery of some distinguished members of the Army, who will be receiving commendations for their devotion to their country.”
>You want to mention Pink, your true savior, who even now is stalking somewhere amidst the gilded embroidery, eloquent marble pillars and buttressed ceiling curves, watching you
>But you bite your tongue
>Best to keep her identity and allegiance to you out of the public ken for the time being
>It isn’t as though she has the capacity to be bitter, nor the capacity to betray you under any circumstances
>Her enigmatic masters at the Laughing Guild saw to that
“From this skirmish, I retained no wounds of the flesh. Yet the effect on my heart seemed exactly as damaging as if the lone attacker’s mission had been successful. The light of justice faded from my eyes just a bit. The deep and fervent concern I’d developed over the taking of innocent lives, day after day, night after night in that faraway place, wavered if only for a moment, and I was taken with my own safety. How easy it would have been, exactly then, to allow myself to be taken into secreted custody, holed up in a safehouse someplace, to merely lie in wait until my own personal safety was reassured. How easily those thoughts welled up inside me, blotting out my fated path. Yes, ladies and gentlecolts of the Senatori, I believe in fate, in some small way. I believe we are meant to take certain measures in life which are known to us only by their indirect effects on our hearts and minds. I made an ultimatum yesterday, one I intend to keep. And that ultimatum is this: that I refuse to take the easy path in life, or think selfishly of my own life, when I am complicit to the prolonged pain and suffering that plagues our western border. When all of us, in this storied chamber, are complicit to that.”
>”It’s true!”
>”Hear, hear!”
>”It’s what I’ve said all along!”
“Now that we are all on the same page, ladies and gentlecolts, I will now present what I believe to be an apt solution to this problem: over the course of the next several weeks, a series of bills will be drafted and presented here on the Senatori floor for vote that will, in effect, increase our spending in every aspect of this war. More stallions and mares on the front lines to watch one another’s flanks. Better quality equipment. More reliable defense systems. Higher level offensive artillery grids to be deployed. Communications will be updated. Ideas we’ve left simmering on the backburners of our military arsenal will be prototyped, tested, and executed in an efficient manner. The Cult already stole from us a large portion of the New Maker’s Handbook there, in their guerilla raids on the Unicronian Archives three summers ago. They’ve stolen the lives of innocents, our innocents, in their mad crusade. They’ve stolen our spirit. We will take it back to them in full force! We will double, nay, triple the strength of our front! We will push them back into the nuclear wastes of the West! And we will demonstrate to them what it means to attack Canterium! Once and for all, we will show them!”
>There’s applause from all corners of the chamber, a massive, singular energy of hundreds of ponies whipped into a chaotic frenzy of emotion
>The sound is nearly deafening in the enclosed space, sonic waves of claps and cheers clashing against the concavities and through the wide, gleaming pillar of white-lit air at its center, in which you stand
>Every petty faction; the “griffins” who lust for war, the “mules” who despise it, the imperialists in their lofty balcony, the republicans, the bureaucrats, the scientists’ platform, judiciaries, trans-nationalists…
>All of them have been singularly entranced by your words, owing to the ludicrously broad sentiment behind them
>You are Chancellor Neighsay, and…
>This is only the beginning of something new, something brighter…

. . .

>Two hours later, the Senatori proceedings have at last come to a close
>As soon as you make the closing statements and officially adjourn, nearly half the chamber comes flooding down from their stands to congratulate you personally on your inspiring opening speech
>Ponies in cloaks, capes, designer headgear, business attire, and all varieties of fashionable clothes, in addition to the sharp focus of dozens of reflective oculi and the cameraponies and reporters behind them, crowd around you now, all practically begging for your attention
>You know, however, that now is not the time, and whisper a short dismissal order in the attentive ear of your chief of security
>At once, she strides up to the podium and addresses the horde
>”The Chancellor must retire now, due to increased security concerns after yesterday’s incident. No further questions will be taken. Thank you.”
>She didn’t even need a microphone; her voice alone boomed loudly enough to discourage any of the more ambitious media hounds from approaching any further
>So, good, now they’re skulking back to their mansions here on the Capitoline Peak of the Mons, and they’ll all be resting easy tonight that the future of war policy is in the capable hands of their diligent Chancellor
>It’s no exaggeration to say you’ve grown to hate these ponies; being forced to deal with Senators, being a Senator yourself before being given the EXTRAORDINARY HONOR of the Chancellorship, it’s festered inside you all this time, waiting its turn to bubble over…
>You can’t stand their sniveling, their flattering, all these little lickspittles with their coiffed manes and pleated collars…
>Well, you’ve grown bitter, that’s all
>How could you not? After what happened yesterday, after what you were subjected to for a month before that, how could you not have changed?
>To know that these imbeciles are the ones truly running the show in Canterium, that the Chancellorship, for all its pomp and prestige, gives you no special weight to your vote in matters of the state
>But they hear you speak, don’t they?
>They listen to you, TRULY listen…
>The noise of the Senatori chamber gives way to a calm ambience as you and your escort of five bodyguards make your way down a side hall lined with paintings of famous generals
>You look at each of them in turn; all the stallions and mares look the same in these images: hard, steely-eyed, commanders of respect above all other things, willing to do what is necessary to ensure the survival of their beliefs
>Perhaps you should have been a general, instead of a politician
>You’ve never been a player of the Game, not like those natural talents born into it; you won’t delude yourself into believing you see twelve moves ahead like you’ve tricked everypony else into believing
>Maybe it’s right what they say about you; maybe you are a born warmonger…
>No
>This is where you were meant to be in this moment
>There’s nothing left to do but to steel your resolve and move on
>As you walk, feeling curiously alone despite your security staff huddled around you in careful formation, you begin to make a mental checklist of all the recent troubles you’ve encountered, so that you can formulate proper solutions for them
>First and seemingly foremost would be the assassination attempt, and determining who, if anypony, stood behind that Tree Hugger in trying to take your life
>You weren’t lying to Black Bar when you told him you believed she was a lone wolf, but just to be careful, you aren’t going to rule out any options
>Now, the obvious answer would be that the Cult of Exsilium or another of your innumerable extant foes sent her to murder you for the political instability that would ensue
>BUT, with the increased border concerns in Mons Canteria, smuggling her into the city would have been no easy feat
>It’s much more likely this was an in-house affair, so now the question becomes this: who do you know that needs you dead?
>Your thoughts immediately go to Minister Black Bar, though it’s difficult to discern how he would directly benefit from your death
>Still, perhaps it’s unwise to allow his agency and his agency alone to probe Tree Hugger for information; you’ll have to get some of your own agents in on the action as well for a cross examination
>There are the “mules”, those peace-loving cowards; the assassin certainly had the look about her of one who might have been radicalized by their kind, but you honestly doubt they’ve got the gall to try such a public stunt
>And then there’s the imperialists
>Oh, it WOULD be delicious, wouldn’t it, if Senator Blueblood and his lackeys tried to take you out now, believing they alone could restore the Empire that once decked their ancient families in fortune and power beyond belief?
>Blueblood’s even told of late that his lineage is directly descended from the Prophetess Celestia herself; isn’t that a laugh and a half?
>But surely, as stupid as the lot of them are, they aren’t THAT stupid, no?
>Surely even they’d have the foresight to realize that offing the Chancellor of the Senatori at such a pivotal moment in this war would have disastrous consequences for everypony involved, them included?
>The basic fact is that their pipe dream of bringing back the Canterian Empire would crumble so magnificently if the Cult succeeded in annexing Unicronia that it’d almost be worth getting assassinated, just so that you could laugh at them from Tartarus
>And even with all of them out of the way, there are still so many other possibilities, so much potential for intrigue…
>There’s nothing you can do right now but wait; eventually, if there’s any structure to this thing, you’ll be privy to it
>So, on to the next order of business: the mystery of the Maker’s Fist
>Your black hat specialist agent managed to inform you from across the continent about the mass supercomputer import into the newly minted CI site, and the circumstances of that discovery have been gnawing at you ever since
>Because of the debt he owes you, Agent Lucky Clover is one of the very few ponies you trust absolutely; why did he make such a big fuss of getting that information across to you ASAP?
>You wonder briefly if he’s in any danger of having his cover blown, but push those fears aside for now
>The cover credentials as an inquiry officer provided to him courtesy of your most talented operatives have allowed him to penetrate this deep into that technological ark in the Badlands, where the New Maker’s Handbook sprung from the earth and changed ponykind irreversibly
>He’s nothing if not scrupulous, and he’s never blown an operation, especially not one with this much pertinence
>Supercomputer stacks… what are they building in that hole in the desert?
>And why are you drawn magnetically to the idea that there is far more to this tidbit than meets the eye?
>Once again, the answer to that question currently lies in the scheming hooves of one Minister Black Bar
>You’ve no guarantee whether leaning on him yesterday did you any favors in this matter, or will simply prove to make him even more careful about what he says to you
>Only time will tell, you suppose; he’s made a verbal agreement to deliver those documents to you, and you’re going to make certain he delivers on that agreement
>And even if he does, without any kind of trickery, you can’t be sure how much those documents will actually reveal about the nature of the place
>Anything to assuage your obsession, you suppose
>You take a sharp turn left into the eastward north-south corridor connecting the back conference rooms with the chambers leading up to the central forum, that great cavernous hall constantly filled with worker bees moving information from one place to another
>Castle Kabardian, in addition to being the home of the Senatori and a great number of other political and military officials, is also the bureaucratic capital of the world
>Every day, potentially millions of physical and digital documents are couriered through storied, monolithic halls, between cold metal racks and lofty oaken shelves, filed away in databases only tangentially connected to one another through shared userbases
>Everypony has their own network in this place, and yours is one of the largest and most far-reaching
>One of…
>There are others, despite not having their names inscribed on gilded placards or marble busts bearing their likenesses on the grand stairway into the Senatori chamber like your own, who nevertheless hold as much or more knowledge than you
>Nopony knows everything in a system like this, you understand that… still, it would be nice to be able to summon up any trifle of potentially earth-shaking knowledge you like on a whim, without the constant coaxing and facades…
>As the most theoretically powerful individual in the country, nay, the developed world, you should be able to exercise that power by tapping into that great stream of knowledge wherever and whenever you please, but it’s never been so simple as all that
>Secrets are kept even from you, and as necessary as that double-blind system is to maintaining all this, to keep it from crumbling under tyrannical monarchy as it once did, hundreds of years ago, you lament that irony
>You can’t have everything, and you can’t know everything
>All you can do is soldier on in this war you’ve inherited, and make the best of your circumstances as anypony should
>Which brings you to the final thorn in your side: the war effort
>Now that you’ve begun the process of devoting more energy and horsepower to the Unicronian front by way of impressing the Senatori with heart-wrenching anecdotes, you have some room to think deeply about the matter
>The fact remains that the Cult of Exsilium is the biggest extant threat Canterium has faced in two centuries, and not only for the obvious reason that they’re more technologically uninhibited than any other historical army
>No, their true threat lies in their ideology, which has been gleaned only in bits by spies and transcribed accounts from their mysterious elites
>The Cult believes that they are the true heirs of Old Exsilia, that great western antiquity nation founded by the former Unified Kings, who were cast out from Mons Canteria, then known as Canterlot, by the returned prophetess Celestia and her disciples
>Those ancient kings journeyed as far west as they could without infringing on the settled lands of the Makers, and implored their bipedal allies to grant them some lands upon which they could construct a new kingdom
>Yadda yadda, it eventually fell, and the borderlands have since been disputed and largely unconquered due to the notorious Western Plague, said to strip the skin of its fur, boil blood, and slowly poison the victim until they die in intolerable agony
>All symptoms recently discovered to be consistent with exposure to nuclear irradiation, after early experimentation with New Maker atomic arsenal technology proved grotesquely fatal to the involved researchers…
>But you digress
>Old Exsilia most certainly collapsed when the Makers themselves died off, but like a nuclear cancer this Cult has emerged from those hallowed territories and proclaimed themselves to be worthy of the title “Exsilium”
>It’s insulting to Kabardian, that magnificent First King of Exsilia you admired so fervently as a foal
>It’s insulting to the very root of your society, their religious devotion to the spirits of the Makers and their obsession with reducing the world to a technological nightmare without a trace of life-giving magic
>The very notion of this possibility has shaken Canterium to its core; all those who know the terrifying capability of the Cult know that they shall deliver on their promise
>It’s a penetrating fear, one that needs no more basis in reality to inspire real dread than Canterium’s own accelerated expansion into modern times
>The discovery of the New Maker’s Handbook and the advancements which followed it proved decisively that with the right motivation, a civilization can indeed terraform its own technological prowess seemingly overnight
>Is the Cult any different in that regard?
>If it had the power, in its madness, to transform the entire world to its ideal, it would, wouldn’t it?
>You know it would, and so does everypony else with any sense
>Because, in addition to their claims to the title “Exsilium”, those cultist ponies from the forgotten west claim to be the true heirs of the Makers themselves, and revere them as gods
>Acting now, and acting big, is the only way to ensure absolutely that the Cult doesn’t find purchase in Unicronia
>If they take that old mountain city, the rest of Canterium will fall like dominoes to their biomechanical hooves in short order
>You’ve sunk too much time and too many resources into that bastion to allow it to fall, and you would gladly quadruple that effort if you were able
>Still, the fear looms large over your head that the Cult will soon be forced to employ the full extent of their known arsenal, up to and including blueprints, stolen of course from the Unicronian Archives, for  nuclear warheads and propulsion systems
>Satellite imaging of the western borderlands have shown no evidence of missile test sites or production facilities on their side, but for all anypony knows they could be aware of your eyes in the sky and maneuvering to avoid detection
>There are, however, confirmations of a nuclear stockpile beginning to amass in Las Pegasus, or Pegasopolis or whatever that lunatic Hurricane has taken to calling the combination of all the cities he’s stolen, but that’s another can of worms entirely
>The Pegasus Armistice State is a topic you’d rather not consider at the moment; allied though they may be with the Cult, they’ve been inert for some time, and focusing now on destroying their benefactors will cripple them to the point that they’ll be forced to surrender without a continued fight
>Black Bar wanted very much to make a boogeystallion out of the PAS yesterday to take care of the imperialists, who lately he’s come to despise, but you saw through that little trick instantly
>You have no reason to believe that Blueblood is colluding somehow with the PAS, or that they’re an immediate danger at all
>It WOULD make a compelling motive for an attempt on your life, but…
>No, it simply can’t be; you don’t have enough information to conclude that
>Don’t get led into Black Bar’s trap, Shetland; it’ll do you no good in the long run
>”Sir.”
“Uh?”
>Who said that?
>Your soul seems to reenter your body as you identify the source of the voice as that of your chief of security, waiting patiently near the brass door leading into your offices
>Dear Celestia, were you hopelessly lost in thought!
>You could’ve stepped off a cliff edge and not even noticed your hooves had left the ground!
“Oh, yes. I’ll be retiring now. Thank you for escorting me thus far.”
>”If it’s all the same, Chancellor, we’ll be coming in with you.”
“What, seriously? This large of an escort? I hardly think that’s necessary.”
>”Sir. Minister Black Bar’s orders, sir. Your safety is of the utmost importance to—”
“You are on MY staff. You take orders from me, not from the Intelligence Minister.”
>”Sir…”
“Leave me. My secretary will contact you when you’re needed again.”
>The cream-colored pony sighs, signaling to her subordinates to take their leave
>”As you command, Chancellor.”
>You watch with narrowed eyes as her blue-and-pink pompadour disappears around the far corner, intent on confirming that she follows your orders
>Then you turn about-face towards the long, simple corridor to your main office, the reflective sheen of the door rippling across its rich metallic surface as it slams shut behind you
>A few deep breaths, in and out, as you add another point to your mental checklist:
>Prevent Black Bar from meddling with your staff
“Alright, you’ve stumped me. Where are you hiding?”
>Silence for a few moments, then a rustling of a stack of papers on a vacant desk across the thin reception area
>One ebon-black hoof, shiny like the carapace of a gargantuan insect, splits the stack in half, crawling out from between two sheets like an ungodly birthing of some kind
>It extends out further and further, its natural length festooned with pink zigzag patterns and ersatz dots, bloodlike in shape, proving now to be impossibly hidden inside that paper stack
>It’s followed by a dark latex shoulder, then the beginnings of a muzzle, and after some time Pink’s entire mass has squeezed out of what had appeared to be a space no thicker than a millimeter wide
>There’s no telling how she manages these magic tricks of hers, merely being an earth pony
>One of the mysteries of the Laughing Guild, instilled deliberately in the Mouthless Jesters to confuse and terrify onlookers
>She steps down from her perch and stands now behind the desk, silent and unmoving, looking remarkably like a demonic secretary of sorts, perhaps befitting the reception to Tartarus
>You smile, adjusting your cloak’s clasp and walking straight ahead, towards the privacy of your inner sanctum
“Come.”
>Though you can’t hear her hoofsteps, there’s no doubt in your mind that Pink is following you
>Watching you always from the shadows, protecting you better than any common security staff could ever hope to do
“At least somepony in this Celestia forsaken place is loyal to me and me alone. Aren’t you, my dear?”
>There’s no answer, but you grin widely all the same
>You weren’t expecting an answer
>You never need one from her…

******

>”So you’re really a Sister Missionary? With the Faith of Celestia and all that?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, that’s me! I’m a faithful follower of the Prophetess, here to deliver her word to those who might be saved by it.”
>Truth, and the consequences of Truth, are what have brought you here
>Truth is the ideal form, the direct word of Mater, Her essence
>Truth is attainable only by those who are honest with themselves, in their heart of hearts, about what draws ponies to the light, towards ascension, towards the suffering of knowledge
>It is what lies dormant in all minds, awaiting extraction by means of intense focus; meditation, daily prayer, fasting, the countless litanies, the trials of faith, extraordinary passion, chastity, discipline, the courage to move forward…
>And to even glimpse, with the inner Eye, to See that light firsthoof; to hear, on the same magnificent wavelength, even an iota of the Word of Mother Sun…
>It is a precious sensation, one to be coveted, one that trumps all other senses in its splendid beauty
>For above all, Truth is certainty; to be aligned with Mater’s will, one must be certain that the path they walk is righteous
>You are Twilight Sparkle
>And in this moment, you’re feeling both desperately uncertain and remarkably untruthful
>Abreast with Applejack, the granddaughter of the Apple Baroness of Rich Valley, you’re trotting at a mild pace down a dusty gravel path towards her home, Sweet Apple Manor, a moniker she’s fond of repeating
>You suppose that being a member of such a legendary house would instill a certain sense of deserved pride in that name, so you aren’t too judgmental of the habit
>Your sins far surpass pride, after all…
>But are they sins if they’re in service of Mater’s will?
>Is it wrong to conceal the true nature of your mission to ponies you’ve only just met? Whose intention’s you cannot yet discern?
>Then again, what is the true nature of your mission? Why are you here at all?
>You aren’t doubting the word of Numena by any means, only… you can simply hope now that she’ll visit you again soon enough, to glean again from the recesses of your mind the next step of the—
SPLOSH
>Way
>Your left forehoof just landed in something wet
>You feel a grimace coming on when you look down to discover that a fat patch of brown sludge has sloshed up from a puddle and landed firmly on the fringe of your cloak
“Oh, Celestia save me…”
>”Rained pretty heavy last night. Y’might notice nopony round here wears fancy stuff like that for exactly that reason.”
“It’s alright, I’ve got spares folded away in here. I’ll have to find some clean water to wash this in, though…”
>A stifled laugh from Applejack alerts you to the possibility that you’ve just said something stupid again
>“What now?”
“What? What did I say?”
>”We’ve got a washing machine at the manor, sugarcube. You really are from two centuries ago, ain’tcha?”
>You sigh deeply
“Only fifty years ago, really. The New Maker’s Handbook and all the technologies detailed within were sternly rejected at the Last Matron Onus, ahem… a meeting of all the Matrons Celest of the faith. They didn’t want New Maker tech to taint the sacred within the clergy. That decision applied to the Templum Clerici, our male counterparts, and to the Arbiters of Truth to some extent… but it especially impacts the Sisterhood.”
>“Impacts? You don’t sound too keen on the decision.”
“I’m not. I mean, I never was. I’ve always found New Maker technology to be extraordinarily fascinating. A washing machine, for example. Now, I do suppose I’ve heard vaguely of such a device, but I’ve never had the opportunity to see one up close. We don’t have such things at the convent in Mons Canteria.”
>”You haven’t missed much. It’s just a big box that spins all the water our of your clothes. Frankly, sometimes I wonder if the world might be better if we stepped back in time a ways, y’know, tech-wise. Everything’s interconnected now, for better or for worse. Now, on one hoof, maglevs make produce distribution much faster, much more reliable, and much more far-reaching. It’s turned our operation here in the valley into the largest food supply chain in the country. On the other, you’ve got instant communication. Now, our customers in Unicronia, Crystallatia, wherever, can yell at us over the dang phone if we run even a day late, threaten to cancel contracts over the littlest trouble. Folks have just, I don’t know, they’ve sped up their minds. Everything has to be faster now to keep balance.”
“Perhaps you and I should trade places.”
>”Hmmm…”
>She theatrically raises her eyebrow and rubs her chin in mock consideration of the proposal
>”The Princess and the Pauper-style, huh? Well, I gotta tell you, Twilight, I don’t really fancy getting painted purple.”
“Very funny. Excuse my asking, but you mentioned long distance telephones. Do you have one at Sweet Apple Manor that I could use?”
>”Sure do, and sure can once we get there. But before you call anypony, you’ve got to meet my Granny. Believe it or not, you n’ her have got a religion in common.”
>All you can do is raise an eyebrow in perplexity, then ponder what you just heard
>The “souk” of the riverlands, home of the sizeable Saddle Arabian population on Apple property, has gradually fallen away from the edges of the path you now walk
>In its place has grown scant forestry, shrubberies at the edges of the trail, wildflowers on a high ridge in the eastern distance; beyond that, a dark treeline divides the land and faintly obscures what looks to be a wheat field
>Over the crest of the knoll you’re approaching, a thin shimmering spire rises from the earth, some distant skeletal mass of steel, copper, and scaffolding
“Do you mean to tell me that your grandmother, I mean, the Apple Baroness, is a Celestian?”
>”Sure as shooting. And not just any sort of Celestian. I don’t suppose you know this, seeing as how you just strolled in last evening, but there used to be a convent like the one you’re from out in these parts.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. At the foot of Mount Fillai.”
>”Bit of an archaic name, but sure. We call it Steelshoe Peak round here.”
“The convent in Rich Valley was abandoned years ago, correct?”
>”But before that, bout, oh, sixty-some years ago now, must be, my Granny Smith wanted to be an initiate there.”
“A Sister Initiate? Your grandmother?”
>”That’s right. She could tell you more, since all I remember are from the bedtime stories she used to tell me and my brother, but she wanted to be one of you folk more than anything in the world at one point. Good thing she didn’t, though, because the convent cleared out a couple years later, and now it ain’t nothing but a pile of stones at the hoof of a hill. No offence, of course. But the family didn’t want it for her either way, is my understanding.”
>Several thoughts are dashing through your mind at the moment, each struggling to command your attention
>You desperately cling to one and find it’s precisely what you were looking for
>If you’re to survive in this world of blasphemers and seculars, you must think, to a healthy extent, like a secular blasphemer
>And that line of thinking precludes using certain random coincidences to your advantage
>Normally, you’d ascribe a chance such as this to divine intervention, exalting Mater and praising her goodwill towards you, but this opportunity seems so grand that even one as admittedly naïve as yourself can’t fail to see its benefits
>So grand, as a matter of fact, that you’re almost convinced it’s the work of Naiad tempters from the darkness of the Depths, for even Mater Solis does not make miracles this grand lightly
>You’ve been hopelessly searching for but a day and a half, and now you may have found an inkling of purpose
>The hill you ascend is beginning to steepen, and the muck on your fringe is beginning to dry
>And you, Twilight Sparkle, couldn’t in your wildest dreams have schemed out a better path than that which you now walk by chance
>At the end of this road is a Baroness, a mare in a position of great power and authority in this region to which you’ve been summoned by the will of angels, and with this Baroness you share an extreme common bond
>That bond is the Sisterhood of Solemnity; and if you’ve got an ounce of practical intelligence in you, you’ll use that bond to its fullest advantage
>Find honesty…
>That phrase Numena uttered seemed especially pertinent in your last epiphany on the train
>You’ve not been honest with anypony so far, not Brittle Bong, not Braeburn, not Applejack, about the truly bizarre nature of your adventure
>Perhaps… just perhaps… you should begin with the Apple Baroness, Granny Smith?
>What new Truth might be revealed to you if you were to reveal your Truth to her?
>Just a thought, just a theory…
>Don’t look too far ahead, Twilight
>One step at a time
“She sounds remarkable! I mean… I’d be delighted to meet her. From what I’ve heard, Celestianism isn’t exactly common in this part of Canterium.”
>Applejack shuffles slightly, narrowly avoiding a long stalk of grass bent over the path
>As she ducks, she produces what looks to be a cob pipe and lighter from her small shoulder knapsack, striking the silver piece aflame and using it to burn down the meal within to soft wisps of smoke
>Tobacco is reserved for extremely rare rituals in the convent; here, you realize it’s probably just another industry
>”She’s a tough old nag, I’ll warn you of that. Not too fond of Braeburn, so try not to let on that he’s our connection. She downright dislikes the Saddle Arabians, so there’s that. In fact, just let me do all the talking, yeah? That should cut down on any problems we might have here.”
“She dislikes Saddle Arabians? And yet your Family uses them for labor?”
>You expect to see a twinge of annoyance on Applejack’s profiled face, but instead witness a sarcastic sideways smile and a headshake
>”That right there? Yeah, that’s the kind of subject you’re gonna want to avoid when we get there, sugarcube.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
>”Assume? Naw, of course not. But listen here: those ponies CHOSE to come here and work our fields, and bring their families along with them, and make those families bigger n’ rabbits on a hot skillet. We don’t ‘use’ them, we help them, and they help us. Granny sees that it’s necessary, like everypony else round here, but that don’t mean she needs to enjoy their company. She came up in a different time. Your time, I s’pose. In fact, I’m a little surprised you don’t lean more towards her par-ti-cu-lar frame of mind, being the way you are.”
“Maybe it’s the Canterian cosmopolitan in me.”
>”Heh heh. Hehehaha! Yeah, right. Maybe it’s that.”
>You’re looking at your hooves now, concentrating on avoiding the mud puddles scattered here and there
>”Like I said before, it’s the surplus that’s killing us. I’m on the ground level, so I see their trouble, and I do my part best I can. But it just ain’t enough. I try to get through to Braeburn on it, and… well, that don’t matter. Point is, there’s a limit, and Baron Rich is just letting too many in. We can’t sustain the growth, we can’t feed them all, that’s why they’re living like that. And then you got these things sprouting up everywhere—”
>Out of the corner of your eye, you see Applejack make a pointed gesture straight ahead
>”—and you see why he’s really bringing them in. Where the money’s really going.”
>The ground is flatter now; you must have crested the little hill you’ve been trudging up these past ten minutes
>Gradually, you lift your eyes off the earth and follow the trace of Applejack’s hoof towards…
“Sweet Celestia…”
>The spire, that miniscule metal rod you sighted a few minutes ago over the peak, has now come into full view
>What appeared only to be the antenna of a distant labor tower was, as is now clear, the tip of a gargantuan triple-helical structure rising into the sky from a stony complex on the river basin
>Massive construction cranes set in place on the perimeter of the complex drift up and down, transporting bundles of girders to the top and setting them in place
>Though the structure is mostly a metal skeleton waiting to be completed, the bottom layers are filled by a dark reddish-brown material, mostly concealed by black plates at the lowest points
>At the riverside, long flat barges, the name “RICH” emblazoned in gold lettering across their great broadsides, are transporting shipping containers to the edge of the construction site, offloaded by equally enormous hauling machines
>Vehicles with hooks, wide shovels, and iron barrels attached to their fronts patrol the makeshift city of crates, girder piles, and mounds of soil, all focused in synchronized effort on the building of this landmark
>But the most striking feature of the helix is the crimson pipeline erected vertically through its central spine, trailing down through concrete curtains and eventually plunging into the shining blue river current
>Around the entirety of the site move nearly imperceptible dots; ponies, like ants from this distance, control the machines directly, and those positioned within the tower itself seem to be working manually at constructing the final layers
>Altogether, the mass sticks out markedly against the mostly flat, natural terrain of this part of the valley
>You can’t help but stand there dumbly for a few moments before collecting yourself and venturing a question
“What… is it?”
>”That, Sister Twilight, might be Baron Rich’s greatest achievement or his greatest mistake. And it ain’t the only one he’s built.”
>You can only stare, attempting to determine the real scale of the structure, but it eludes your senses just as Mons Canteria once did
>”He calls them ‘Sky Farms’. See the soil they’re packing into the slopes inside the thing? When it’s done, they’re gonna plant crops and trees in it. They’ll be watered automatically from distribution pipes all coming up from the river water. As for sunlight, those black plates they’re lining up the sides with, from what I understand they’re a New Maker alloy that absorbs something like 99% of it. Gets fed back to the crops with interior floodlights, using a combination of the solar energy and a hydroelectric base. Totally self-sufficient.”
“They’re… farms?”
>”They’re eyesores, first and foremost. But the Baron got it in his head a while back that efficiencies could be greatly increased by expanding vertically, rather than cutting into nature preserves to make more farmland.”
“That sounds like a good thing, right?”
>”Could be. Might not. He’s leasing out lands from the families from contracts his daddy drafted ages ago that basically give him the right to build this kind of stuff on our property. Within reasonable limit, of course. But he ain’t gonna stop here, I just know it. He wants to industrialize the whole valley, make it all proper like the city you came from. And he’s doing it with, guess who, the cheap labor we’re trying to keep out for exactly that reason. Take a look.”
>From the same pouch from which she earlier produced her smoking kit, Applejack pulls out a thick glossy cylinder, barely two inches long, with a shorter, thinner ring on one circular face and a subtly convex lens on the other
>A sharp pull on the ring with her front teeth extends the cylinder section by section, peeling out from its inner space until, at full length, the object appears as five concentric cylinders attached end to end
“A short range telescope!”
>”A spyglass. Here, eye on the little end.”
>You greedily take the mechanical treasure from your guide’s grasp, coveting it for a moment in your outstretched hooves before doing as told, placing the small glass end near one eye and closing the other
>It takes a few moments to get used to the limited perspective, but eventually it becomes clear that you’re being granted a closer look at the operations at the base of the construction site
>The ponies milling about, on hoof or in vehicles, carting loads and handling sensitive equipment, they are both instantly familiar and foreign in appearance
>Long legs, thick muzzles, stocky midsections, silky draperies of manes flowing out of bright yellow bucket helmets, beards aplenty…
“They’re all Saddle Arabians.”
>Silence greets your observation, until you finally peel your eye off the lens and turn to witness a knowing look already taking Applejack’s young face
>Despite first impressions, you’re now certain that she can’t be much older than yourself, can she?
>”The Families take them in and put them to work out of necessity. We know it was a hard road coming here; we know what war does to a place. This little corner of the world’s seen its fair share of feuds, believe me. And supplying food for the War in the West ain’t exactly a walk in the park.”
“But.”
>”But, we make do with them for now because they’re coming here in droves, and they’re coming here in droves because Baron Rich needs them. He needs them for the towers, and when he’s done with the towers there’s gonna be more for ‘em to do, and more and more, and time’ll pass and this place just won’t be the same as it was. He can’t make members of the Families change the future for him. But as long as he’s got an uprooted workforce from someplace far away, he can do what he likes with the future.”
“That sounds like an awfully pessimistic way of looking at things. What if things change for the better? What if, I mean, what if New Maker technology only brightens the future?”
>Applejack huffs, swiping the telescope out of your hoof and nearly storming off with it, back down the ridge and onto the trail
>”You mean like it did for the Makers?”
>…
“What do you mean by that?”
>You hurriedly turn about and gallop down after her, leaving the tower to shrink beneath the little peak once more
>”The Makers are all gone now. Six hundred years or more, they’ve been gone. And from what we know now, it were their own dang technology what did ‘em in. The Western Plague, that came from them. They blew themselves to smithereens with what they built. And we live off the earth here, and we always have. Why go their way, Twilight Sparkle? Why change for the sake of change?”
>It isn’t an easy question to answer
>It isn’t particularly difficult to formulate a response, but proclaiming it out loud…
>You’ve long dreamt of a great change, a tidal wave of technological renaissance sweeping through the whole of the Sisterhood to take it into the fold of the modern world
>Perhaps a wave isn’t the ideal metaphor given certain implications, but you’ve no illusions about that image’s origin in your mind
>The point being that living in a world so behind the curve in terms of what is possible has always frustrated you beyond belief
>Change is the primary factor of growth; the Makers, for example, arriving in Old Equestria nine-hundred-ninety years ago, introducing to its inhabitants the wonders of their futuristic gifts
>Without certain restraints on the Makers’ part, the princess Celestia would never have known the vile curse of hubris and avarice in her heart of hearts, never strove to do battle against the Makers and take their gifts wholesale, by force
>Change is the transformation, in defeat, of Celestia upon See Rock, gazing into the light of Mater, shedding the ornaments of royalty and taking on among the Old Tribe the role and title of the Prophetess
>Change was her sacrifice, fifty years later; an immortal channel, tuned to the whim of Goddess, frozen in time, knowing what would become of the world if she remained and selflessly retreating into the Cave of Wisdom, never to return to the land she freed from the tyranny of the Unified Kings
>Change was all that became of the world, which struggled in antiquity to find its own path in the Prophetess’ wake
>Change is the New Maker’s Handbook, the last vestige of a culture who surpassed even the false magics of imitators, whose touch was closer to the divine than any other Sister but you shall ever admit…
>And it’s the future you want for the Sisterhood, what the Matron cannot give them on her own but what you will give once you’ve ascended and once you’ve taken the Matronhood for yourself and rise up and See the light and cross the threshold and—
>You’re sweating
>And your breath is ragged, near to a coughing fit
>Applejack’s widened the gap between the two of you by a decent margin with her more deliberate gait; not to mention her athleticism
>You… you want to cry
>It shouldn’t be so, but you’re imagining awful things, you’re succumbing to ambition, you’re playing a fool’s game, you should just go back and apologize to the Matron for telling her you saw something you were never meant to see
>Just be honest with yourself…
>”Everything alright back there? I can slow down if you need.”
“It’s… it’s alright. I’m fine. How close are we?”
>”Through that thicket ahead, the road widens out, turns to asphalt. From there it’s only a few minutes more at this pace. Woulda just driven over to Braeburn’s if I knew I had to haul somepony else back with me, but shoot, I like the exercise.”
“I’m not complaining.”
>It’s certainly taking quite a bit of self-control not to complain, though
>The breathing techniques you mastered over the years are helping to mitigate the brooding sensation gripping your heart
>But it’s still there, deeper, darker than before, a black light beneath the ocean floor, calling your name…
>You shake your head roughly, opening and closing your eyes, focusing your mind to a razor’s edge
>You have a mission now, a real intent; don’t ruin it over something as inconsequential as your emotions
>”Oh, Twilight? Catch up with me for a second. I gotta talk.”
>Uh oh
>Applejack has stopped in her tracks up ahead on the trail, ostensibly to allow you to approach her
>You do so, trudging over a patch of scattered twigs that seem to have fallen from the limb of a dead tree, cracked open lengthwise, reminding you of some horrible gaping reptilian mouth
>Struck by lightning, no doubt…
>Once, in a distant memory of fillyhood, you recall a thunderclap echoing just beyond the walls of the convent, almost deafening in its shocking suddenness
>The downpour had already shaken you to the core, for in that time you feared that rain of such caliber was the onset of the Flood, and that it would wash you and all your sisters away in a dark rapids towards death, and the Depths
>So, crippled by insecurity in the face of that imposing nighttime torrent, you screeched for help at the sound of that thunderclap
>You were alone in your chambers, wanting for the comforting embrace of the Matron Celest
>The following morning, two Sisters ventured out into the front garden to assess damages, only to find that a great old tree at the perimeter wall had been struck, taking all the lightning’s energy as a conduit draws power from an arcing electrical discharge
>For, you understood even then, lightning is essentially the discharge of a massive capacitor, the earth and the clouds acting as the plates between which accumulated charge potential is inevitably released
>That release had destroyed the tree, burning it black and ending its ancient life, stripping its leaves and bisecting it in one fatal blow
>The same thing’s happened here; it’s equilibrium’s doing
>Equilibrium between the sky and the earth…
>Sometimes, often even, equilibrium comes at the cost of life
>Sometimes, current is not a constant flow, but a sudden, brutal thing…
“What do you want to talk about?”
>You’ve conquered the mound of twigs, attempting in vain to hide your shortage of breath from that run you did a few seconds ago
>Now, you’re staring deep into your new friend’s emerald eyes, and there’s something behind them that wasn’t present before
>You’re nervous about what will come next
>”Y’know, Twilight, I…”
>She coughs, and tiny flecks of tobacco-darkened spittle are launched onto the rocks beneath your hooves
>”S’cuse me. Look, sorry about snapping at you earlier. Celestia knows I didn’t mean to insult your beliefs.”
>You nod; there was really nothing to forgive
>”Y’know, Twilight, I think I can be honest with you about certain things. I know you’re an outsider and all, but you’re also a holy mare, and I do believe that affords me the right to believe you ain’t gonna go spillin’ the beans about these certain things.”
“I… don’t follow.”
>She sighs that same stubborn sigh
>”Look. That business with Sadd’lah back there? That was dangerous for you, if you’d stuck around rather than coming along with me. But it ain’t the only reason I thought it per-ti-nent to string you away from that there souk. Fact is, I… well, how much do you think you know about Braeburn?”
>Braeburn?
>What’s she talking about?
>”I mean, what all did he tell you about himself?”
“He’s in the fruit industry. I gathered that much from talking to him, and the kinds of people he seems to deal with. He likes showing ponies around the Valley, as a hobby.”
>”And?”
“And… he’s a member of the Apple family?”
>”There ya go. Apples trust other Apples. It’s what we do. If we don’t stick together as a family, we don’t survive. The bunch is the bunch is the bunch. That’s what my Granny always used to say.”
>She starts off on the path again; you follow closely next to her
>”But I can’t trust Braeburn. Not fully. With, well, with mares, I s’pose.”
“What do you—oh. Oh. Does he have a history of…”
>”No. No, no, not like that. And I’d be damned before I spread rumors about him that way. But at the same time, I’d rather somepony like you be in our care rather than his.”
>You choose your next words carefully
“Isn’t… it… the same thing? You’re all family, after all.”
>She bites her lower lip, as though struggling to keep certain truths within
>Something tells you she’s not capable of such a thing, however, for a moment later she’s speaking again
>”Braeburn… Braeburn ain’t fully Apple. In fact, he technically ain’t Apple at all.”
“But… his cutie mark?”
>”Maybe I should rephrase that. His mother’s an Apple. Was, an Apple. She died about ten years ago.”
“And his father?”
>There it is again, the lip quivering beneath Applejack’s front teeth, looking close to bursting
>And out comes more words, the truth and its consequences
>That’s the ideal, after all; that’s what you’re here for
>The Truth, no matter the cost
>”The truth is, Twilight…”
>The Truth, by any means necessary
>”And this ain’t something you repeat to anypony, even though half the valley already knows it…”
>The Truth, from the Apple family, towards your legacy
>Towards ascension
>”Braeburn is Baron Rich’s bastard son.”

******

>The taste of blood in your mouth is the first thing that’s pissed you off all day
>Granted, you’ve got a little bit of a temper; you inherited that from your father
>Back in the old days, when you lived in his house on the hill, before the falling-out, you recall listening in through the thin gap between the double chamber doors leading into his private study; listening the way he would shout furiously into the telephone receiver at business associates
>Your ear would sidle up to the polished wood, somehow pleasantly warm and bitter cold simultaneously, and hear the stream of foul language pour out in that deep, drawling voice
>You promised yourself then you’d never use that type of language with friends or family present; well, now that you’re alone, you’re free to lash out at your own incompetence
“DAGNABBIT SON OF A PRENCH WHORSE!!!”
>You are Braeburn
>Once, you were Braeburn Rich
>Once, you were Braeburn Apple
>Now, you don’t know which you are
>As far as you can tell, the most likely option is that you’re neither
>The blood in your mouth, that ore-ish taste, like licking a copper haypenny, now mingles with the tropical taste of the mango you’ve stuck inside your jaw to cool it down
>And the reason your tongue is bleeding now is, of course, because you bit it
>And that’s primarily the fault of the crappy way this area’s come down to in the last few years
>You’re driving along on what looks to be the perfectly flat gravel road leading up the little hill towards your mother’s home, your home, and what comes up but an enormous hole you’ve never hit before
>It couldn’t have existed a few days ago; you just drove this road a few days ago, and there was no hole
>Now there’s a hole, and it’s big and it’s deep and hitting it with your front left tire just drove your jaw up hard into the bottom of your tongue, hard enough to pierce the skin
>Is it skin if it’s on the tongue? There must be another name for that…
>But you aren’t much concerned with finer linguistic details
>No, you’re concerned with the way this place, and its people, have degraded over time
>You’re concerned in the same way everypony else are concerned; the Apples included
>You know your cousin’s been trying to reach out to you about that business, and frankly you don’t know why you’ve been avoiding her
>Compassion, maybe? Or is it just pride?
>Or is it all those awful things she used to say to you when the two of you were foals, in your mother’s old yard when you’d come to visit with your cold, unsmiling escort, and you’d get to play with all the other Apple foals and she’d get together with the cousins and point at you and call you
>(Bastard)
>That secret word, that naughty word trailing further into the past than you can remember, still echoing through time and coiling around you like a tightly wound serpent and squeezing every last ounce of dignity out of your body…
>(Bastard)
>Your mother’s sprawling backyard is covered in houses now, little wooden shacks huddled tight in packs, held together with dusty banners and rope and the gum compound the Plums sell from their rubber tree orchards that’s supposed to hold anything tight, money back guaranteed
>The Saddle Arabians didn’t pay for it though, or any of these supplies for that matter
>The resources for the construction of their homes, their daily needs, their lessons in the common Canterian tongue, et cetera, are all generously provided for them by the Rich Foundation
>The same Foundation that signed an agreement with the government to let them come here in droves in the first place
>No hole before, not a few days ago…
>You wonder if somepony dug into the earth there, maybe to bring it down to the river and make mud mortar
>Maybe a foal or two dug it out to build a little Saddle Arabian palace somewhere, with clay buttresses and high towers of soil
>Once, a long time ago, in your father’s house, you discovered a book detailing the expedition of an archaeologist, the famed A.K. Yearling, to the desert oasis of Buckdad
>The plucky explorer took many pictures there; all in eye-popping full-color, all beautiful panoramas of the famed Golden City beyond the Shining Sea, beyond the Wastes of Old Griffonstone
>You remember gazing through the little white frames with the manticore silhouettes dancing on the borders, through to that seemingly alien world to the east full of sand and mystery
>Yet, among the sand, there was life; street-view pictures showed tens of thousands of Saddle Arabians stuffed together in crowded old causeways, on bridges and on rooftops
>In your mind’s ear, they haggled and ululated, they clip-clopped on the neat stone-brick paths, they sung and shouted and laughed that strange foreign laugh
>Their lives were paintings, illuminated by a bizarre silver sun which seemed then so different from your own, as though they truly were from another planet
>You’d like to go to that place someday, you think
>Not to lay down roots or anything like that, but… just to say you were there, in that cauldron of wonder, just once in your life
>The cauldron these folks are running from, with their wives and their foals in tow
>They’ve come running across those Wastes, and across that Sea, and across the low plains north of Horseshoe Bay, and they’ve come to the Valley to make a new life
>What could inspire that frenzy?
>Only war
>Only war
>And war makes war, again and again; to the east, there’s war, and to the west, there’s war, and to the north and the south there’s always been turmoil and always will be
>The Saddle Arabians came here because they had nowhere else to go, and because they’ve been uprooted by war, and excuses and excuses and on and on…
>Point is, you live here; you’ve always lived here
>Your family’s always lived here; both of them, that is
>You’ve got birthrights to this land, and on some level you imagine you’d be happy to see it back the way it was so many long years ago before the mass migration, loathe as you’d be to admit it to anypony
>Course, you’d be a damn liar if you said you haven’t thought, in long silences from both families, waiting for an answer on some problem or waiting to make a decision about what you should do about your life, that thing perpetually split down the middle, you can’t well say you haven’t THOUGHT of just packing up and heading down the road
>Away from the business, away from the cousins, away from your father and his wife and your house and the memories of your mother inside and
>(Bastard)
>That word
>That awful, awful word, that’s never really lost its sting after all this time
>You can sympathize with the foreigners in that regard; heck, you even ENVY them
>When the going got tough, they didn’t stick around to see if it’d get tougher; they ran as far and as fast as they could to find someplace new, to build up from the beginning and to see the whole thing through again
>It takes more courage than you’ve got to run away
>(Lookit Braeburn the Bastard! He’s runnin’ away! Bastard, bastard! Hahahahahaha!)
>…
>The sun’s high in the sky now; that run to Turnip’s supply yard to help him get the solar panel array up and running again took much longer than you expected
>Glancing at the dim green rectangle on your dashboard, black flashing digits barely visible behind the sheen of reflected sunlight, you see that it’s nearly noon
“Five goddanged hours, Turnip… Celestia damn it…”
>And just like that, the same nagging thought from just ten minutes ago grabs onto your head again, and doesn’t let go:
>What about the nun?
>You suppose she’s probably up and at ‘em already; she passed out so early last night, it’s almost guaranteed she’s an early riser
>She was sitting right there across from you, this strange unicorn from a distant land, all wrapped up in a forest-green robe with all sorts of little frills and cuffs and metal insignia
>She listened to you yammer on about whatever it is you always yammer on about to new folks in town, when-so-ever you happen upon them, usually up at the freight train yard and not the passenger station
>Not so many ponies come in from the passenger trains anymore, so she was a bit of a novelty at that
>But quicker than a jackrabbit on a hot date, she just slumped over about halfway there and showed no signs of waking again
>For a moment, just a brief, loony moment, you thought she might’ve been dead!
>No, she was breathing; that slow, labored tempo, dreamlike, somewhat sick-sounding, as though maladjusted to the air and the altitude
>You suspect she’ll be getting some fine allergies and a hefty dose of nausea over the next few days if that really is the case, but it ain’t nothing your medicine cabinet can’t help
>When you finally pulled into your darkened, dust-colored driveway, you considered just shaking her awake and letting her come on out of it
>But somehow, seeing her sitting there, front hooves planted firmly before her hind legs, curled beneath her in a protective ball shape, head resting against the window, her shroud tucked beneath her neck, pillow-like…
>She just looked so peaceful, like she was dreaming beautiful dreams of fairies and angels and whatever it is nuns dream
>You had no choice, really, but to step around carefully, quietly, hoist her over your flank (you were sure this would wake her, but hell was she a heavy sleeper) and carry her through the door, up the stairs, into your mother’s old room to lay in that thick old quilted heaven
>Shouldn’t have been out this long, Braeburn…
>What if she wandered out? The door might’ve locked behind her, and she’d be stuck outside
>No, no, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to do something like that before you even got back
>She seemed like a clever type, if a bit naïve; eager to learn, and knowledgeable about a different breed of stuff than the type you’ve been learning all your life
>From the age of four, you’d come here, to Apple lands, and your mother would take you out to the fields and you’d learn to plow and sow; by the age of ten, you even knew how to work the combine
>She kept up a little garden that the two of you would sow, water, and harvest by hoof, and twice a week or so you’d come out and do just that, trounce around in the summer mud and the morning-wet grass
>How you loved to come back to the house on the hill and see your father’s wife, that terrible mare the Baroness Spoiled Rich, scowl at you for tracking wet slop all over her freshly waxed floors, her delicate Saddle Arabian rugs
>Point is, that’s what you learned; a stallion’s honest work, and being part of a family you weren’t truly a part of
>This one, Twilight Sparkle, she came up in a completely different place, almost speaking a completely different language; walking a different walk, wearing strange different clothes and speaking of the Old Goddess as though She were still a presence in this place
>She isn’t; well, She hasn’t been, since at least the time of your grandfathers
>But that’s different with the nun; even in her element, the big city to the northwest, that faith has faded away, but to her it’s fresh as the morning dew
>She ain’t stupid just because she doesn’t know what goes on here, she’s just… different, that’s all
>Different like the Saddle Arabians, you suppose
>You shake that comparison out of your head as quickly as it appears, and snap yourself out of the familiar highway trance
>The souk of the lowlands of Apple country has tightened around you, constricting the wide frame of your work truck into a narrow passage between two shoddy sandstone and wood constructions
>An overhead tarp, violet and translucent, flutters over your truck’s roof; you think for a moment you’ll snag it and pull the whole thing down, but luckily you make it safely through, just as you always do
>It’s when you round the next corner, the last one before the wide curve of your dusty truck lot should just be coming into view, that things begin to feel unsafe
>Before you even see what’s stumbling in your periphery, there’s an uneasy feeling in your gut
>At this junction, at this time of day, the crunch of moving ponies gets so thick you have to slow down to a crawl
>Most of them you recognize as farmhands, construction workers, and their families; these ones acknowledge you with a bowed head or a friendly smile
>Despite everything else, you at least treat them right for the honest work they do; Celestia knows they’re better off here than working for the Plums or the Pears, and they reciprocate that kindness
>There are some, however, that don’t nod; these ones you don’t recognize, and they’re all wearing the same loosely wrapped sandy white turbans and red leggings
>Oh no
>You snap your head back into position, looking straight out at your destination ahead of you
>Those colors can only mean one thing, and it isn’t good for you
>You KNEW you’d forgotten a payment somewhere; let’s see, the last time you saw that swarthy old sucker was…
>Far too long ago
>And you must’ve told him then that you’d pay up at a later date, and now the later date has—
THUMP
>Arrived
>In one swift movement, you lurch towards the passenger side seat, away from the massive, scarified hoof that just pounded against your driver’s side window
>The black spot, thick and zigzagged with re-healed white keratin, old wounds from old scuffles back in Saddle Arabia, caresses the window back and forth, producing an awful sound that’s both grainy and squeaky
>At least, that’s the sound you assume it’s making; you’re so focused on the task at hand you can barely discern it from the general muted commotion outside the truck, on the streets
>You nearly tear the passenger seat right out of its frame as you lift up the front to get at what’s underneath
>Your little contingency plan, all wrapped up in a neat bow and prepared there for exactly this situation
>The hoof peels off your window, leaving behind a gray film of dust and muck, and motions for you to roll down the window
“Patience, Sadd’lah… patience…”
>At last, your hoof brushes up against what you were looking for; a ridged surface, smooth to the touch, polished, silver, ready for action
>You grip it best as you can from this angle and slowly slide it out of its nest beneath the seat, feeling its length and its weight as you do so
>A few moments later, that weight is resting on your shoulder as you sit hunched over in the passenger seat, Maker-style, pointing the barrel of your manual trigger shotgun directly at the spot where the dealer’s hoof just receded away
>With your rear hoof, outstretched towards the steering wheel, you slowly, ever so slowly, toggle the pad on the floorboard, watching the falling window with every inch it drops, listening to the sounds amplified by the breaking of the vacuum
>Sure enough, he knows you’re packing; Sadd’lah’s white-wrapped head crowns from below in the window frame, rising up to meet your gaze
>It’s several seconds before he decides to speak
>”I was not aware you owned, eh, baruda, Braeburn. How you say?”
“Gun.”
>”Gun. Ah, yes, yesyesyiiissss.”
“Family keepsake. My mother’s, once. Now it’s mine, like everything else she gave over to me.”
 >”Please do not point at me.”
“My land. I’ll point it where I like.”
>”This is true, Syd Braeburn. Very true. Sahihya.”
>There’s a pause in the conversation, if a one-way standoff could be called such
>During this moment of relative quiet, the hushed tones of Saddle Arabian mares whispering at the fringes of the road, among shacks and basket piles, you notice something odd about Sadd’lah’s face
>The brutish merchant’s face, normally hard, scruffy, and colored an earthy dark-red, now sports a horribly swollen purple bruise on its left cheek, as though inflated with a pump
>Veins are popping out on its shiny surface, and it looks ready to burst
>Normally you’d extend the courtesy to at least ask where the bruise came from, but you hold off for two reasons
>One, this stallion ain’t a friend nor a stranger, and you only show courtesy towards friends and strangers out of principle
>Two, it’d be a pointless question; a shiner like that, just like the ones you had on your own cheeks, time and time again in the old pages of memory, in the fields and the lumber yards of the old Apple estate
>You know exactly where it came from
“Had a run-in with my cousin, didja?”
>For a moment, Sadd’lah appears to attempt a wry smile, but grimaces from the pain and doubles down on his solemn frown
>”In my country, a mare kicks a stallion as such, we have her over barrel. The hide-whip, bastard.”
“This ain’t your country. You’d be a dead stallion if you moved against her, you know that.”
>”Ah, but I am willing to forgive Baruna Applejack. She, eh, knows not of what—”
>A steadying of your weapon and the closing of one eye is all it takes to shut Sadd’lah up
“What. Can. I do you for?”
>”Simple. I know now you do no business with Baruna Applejack, bastard. You are not for making good on Apple account with me.”
“But.”
>”But you have your own account with me, bastard. I trade goods under Rich’s muzzle, you promise payment directly. Settle it.”
“You’re in no position to negotiate with me.”
>He grimaces again, glancing side to side at his underlings, who have now somewhat surrounded your truck in a loose circle
>They all share the same eyes, you think; all of them are slanted, dark, narrow
>Angry
>But your shotgun’s angrier, and Sadd’lah knows it
>”Min ghyr rayb… very well. No violence here, Syd Braeburn. But you should know that your heathen houseguest, the sun worshipper, is off with her.”
>This sends a brief shock through your heart, but you don’t let it reach your hooves
>If you lower your gun, your chance at resolving this situation in your favor becomes nil
“What in the hay are you talking about? Off with who?”
>”Your cousin, bastard. Baruna.”
“What are you saying? Applejack was here? She—oh, no. No, no no…”
>Steady, Braeburn… think about this for a moment…
>You’re scared, scared more than you can let on, and now to pile this on top of it all…
>The last several months, Applejack’s been on a veritable crusade to level with you on the Saddle Arabian problem, among other things
>You know this because she caught you just once, while you were arguing with Turnip on your front porch over Celestia-knows-what
>A long, angry talk ensued, one that you decided you never wanted to repeat; since then, you’ve made a concentrated effort to avoid her whenever she gets the nerve to come by
>Applejack and the rest of the family’s got it in their heads that they can use you as a go-between for your daddy, the Baron
>They figure that if you talk to him about the deficit, the population crisis, the towers, all the things you absolutely refuse to get yourself involved with, he’ll make them go away
>They really believe that a word from you will be worth more than their own damn conferences, worth more than the Barons and Baronesses of all the families coming together to take action against Baron Rich’s policy
>You told Applejack then that you haven’t spoken to Dad since the falling-out, haven’t even been in the same room as him or Tiara or any of them, but she won’t listen
>She never listens to a damn thing you say, she just wants to ride you and use you for the same thing she used to berate you for, when you were foals in the yard and she’d invoke the word
>(Bastard)
>It doesn’t matter now, though
>What happened when you were foals is done, and now there are new tensions that’ve got nothing to do with any of that
>New reasons to hate her, hate the family, hate everything they’ve ever done to scorn you
>They won’t get your help, not now, not ever, if for no other reason than the simple fact that you don’t give a damn
>Steady now… focus on the problem at hoof
>Applejack must’ve come by on another attempt to catch you by surprise, got into a commotion here, and run off with Twilight in tow
>For what reason, exactly? What would Applejack gain from nabbing the nun out of your reach unless…
>Out of your reach
“Son of a goddamned Prench whorse.”
>Slowly, ever so slowly, you remove your right hoof from the shotgun, using it to pull yourself back into the driver seat
>With the other, you’re careful to keep the barrel steady and locked on to the space between Sadd’lah’s bloodshot eyes
>Moving just right, you’re able to keep pressure on him while locking your hoof back into the steering wheel’s groove, retaining eye contact all the while
>With your hind leg scraping the floorboard for the accelerator, you finally speak, taking great effort not to strain and let your voice crack
“I’ll pay my debt in good time. Don’t come round here again and frighten all these good ponies.”
>”Frighten? Never. These ponies know how business is conducted in Buckdad.”
“Threaten me and mine again, and you’ll see how business is conducted in Rich Valley. Good day, Sadd’lah.”
>That one seems to hit the merchant harder than the rest; he backs away from your driver side window, and gestures to his lackies
>All of them, white headdresses, red silks thrown over long sleek legs, coal-black eyes staring into your soul, recede as though pulled on a line by their boss, flicking their tongues at one another as a show of reproach
>It’s only when Sadd’lah and his posse have turned violet in the filtered sunlight beneath a canopy and then disappeared from sight that you lower your gun from the window and place it back beneath the seat
>Your hoof is shaking now, both from the weight of the gun and from the stress of your current situation
>Applejack’s taken your houseguest away from you as a show of force, to pressure you into approaching her yourself and giving her a chance to bargain with you
>This is absurd! It’s like a little filly hiding a toy from a friend she’s upset with, it’s so petty and trivial and…
>And effective
“You won’t give in though, will you?”
>No, you won’t
>Not to her, not to anypony
>You feel at least partially responsible for Twilight Sparkle after last night’s events, but much as you dislike the Apple family right now, you’d be hard-pressed to think of a reason why she wouldn’t be in good hooves with them
>Heck, they’ll take better care of her than you will; they’ve got infrastructure, authority, what’ve you got?
>A shotgun?
>Yet your hind leg’s tapping the accelerator, begging you to cruise off on the dusty gravel road leading down into the river basin, up the bank, into the pines, towards Sweet Apple Manor to retrieve her
>Instead, you pull it up with every ounce of restraint you’ve got and cruise gently into the lot by your home
>By the time you set the brakes, it’s rage that’s inside you, rage that’s replaced the fear
>Something inside you, somewhere deep in your brain, wants you to drive away from all of it, back the other way
>Another part of you wants to lash out at anypony and everypony who’s ever called you by your true name
>(Bastard)
>It’s another feeling entirely that prevents you from doing either of those foolish things
>This one calms your senses ever so slightly, pulls you across the Shining Sea for a moment, brings to life the pictures in the dusty book in the beautiful frames, removes you from all of it
>The country wind blows the dust up from the roots of dying grass, choked by the rambling drive of what some folks call progress, blows it up into the sky, across the distant peaks of those ancient Foal Mountains
>It’s the same dust, here and in Buckdad, the same wind blowing across all the crappy, desolate places on earth
>It’s loyalty, this feeling that calms you, despite everything in your heart telling you it shouldn’t, it can’t
>It’s loyalty that binds you to this crappy place in particular…

******

Continued in ponepaste.org/4285 (Volume II)

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