It’s said that the deeper a legend is set in the Everfree forest, the darker it will be. For this reason Strata stood, captivated, in the very heart of the weald. It was the fog that intrigued the unicorn, and she surveyed the forest from her perch on the ruined tower with a frustrated curiosity. There should have been no fog. The abandoned castle rose high above the woods and, as far as her estimates were concerned, it had to have been midday. She twisted her head to the sky, questioning the darkness. Not one single cloud hung above her, yet an oil spill coated the heavens. Squinting through the fine mist, she could make out stars.
Strata shivered, not from the anomalous perpetual night—which granted would be a perfectly understandable reason to shiver, she thought—but from the dampness in her burnt umber coat. As far as Strata was concerned, the trip would be worth the discomfort. She loved the superstitions she had heard of the Everfree Forest. Myths of plants that would disfigure and cripple a pony, of tempting shades who led even the wisest of mares astray, of a destroyed kingdom relinquished to grief and nightmares. More than anything, Strata wished to one day cause the birth of a legend herself.
That was why she was here, of course. Not to seek out demons or ghosts; adventure was only a happy side-effect of her career. This mare was on an archaeological mission. Ever since her uncle had brought her to the museum in the San Palomino Desert she had been intrigued by ancient objects, most particularly magical ones. She had discovered through research that most magical artifacts became enchanted through their own history. She cared little for the thrill of adventure and danger. There was a ‘why’ and a ‘how’ behind every relic that glowed with antique energy, and Strata strove to find exactly what that was.
Strata lay down on the stone floor and stared blankly at the massive sculpture in the center of the room. A complete absence of forest noises comforted her, though normally the sudden dispelling of rustling leaves and the clamor of strange animals would be cause for concern. Strata enjoyed the silence. It allowed her to concentrate, and she closed her eyes with a light smile. Her horn glowed a deep crystal blue, and she listened to her mind. Before her spell began to take effect, Strata’s mind wandered back to her childhood days when her destiny fell into place.
Amidst her fervent studying in the museum library, she had come across a spell that some unicorns used to locate gems and other treasures. As a filly she would constantly try new spells in hopes of discovering her talent. Archaeology was, of course, her most beloved subject, but no cutie mark had appeared despite several years of continuous research and practise. No worries, she had figured—being adept at one talent was no reason not to keep a hobby of a different one. In the intense quiet of the expansive museum, she focused all her knowledge of magic into detecting a small pile of gems she had hidden.
Nothing happened, and the eager filly collapsed with disappointment. She shrugged it off soon enough, burying her muzzle in her novels once again to distract her from the frustration of finding who she was meant to be. Flustered, she was barely able to make it through more than three pages before she glanced above the leather bindings at a glinting object which caught her attention.
It was a stone slab with runic writing, thought to be from the Unicorn Kingdom that had succumbed to the Windigos so many centuries ago. Strata had stared at it for a very long time before throwing her book to the ground and closing her eyes. She spun herself quickly until she collapsed, and as her head hit the ground she focused her magic, searching for the location of the slab.
Her head exploded with lights and emotions, as if a million voices were speaking around her. Fights and wars and births and celebrations played themselves out in her mind. The migraine came immediately. The little filly started screaming, struggling to wrench her eyelids open and end the surge of information pummeling her brain. She writhed and moaned, pausing as definitions and edges started to rise forth from the fire in her mind. The slab became apparent to her, its smooth face wavering as the runes lit up and shimmered. She could hear conversations coming from it and she attempted to focus only on the slab and not the hundreds of other streams of history assaulting her, blacking out in the process.
Her uncle had found her body stretched toward the runic slab. He was mostly concerned about the collapsed pony but was also partially ecstatic about the symbol adorning her flank. At first neither he nor the filly had known what the ‘M’ symbol meant, but the upcoming study binge it would bring had excited Strata too much for her to care.
“I’ve found it!” she shouted, her words echoing down the empty library halls. A mile away, some pony shushed her. Her uncle chuckled and leaned down to her, ruffling her long sandalwood mane as he nodded at her to continue. “Ehwaz, the runic symbol ‘M’, literally translates to ‘Horse’. The rune characterizes those with speed of thought and forward progress. What do you think it means?” she asked, her blue eyes as wide as her face.
“You tell me, dear. You’re the one with ‘speed of thought’,” he joked. She frowned as only a foal is wont to do, and he struggled not to laugh harder. “I’m more curious about what you did to knock yourself senseless, child. Whatever it was, I suppose it’s what you’re meant for.”
“Oh, gosh,” she sighed, propping her head onto her forehooves. “I sure hope not. I don’t wanna pass out for a living.”
At the behest of her uncle, and with Strata’s experience being so intriguing to them, the museum staff had separated the stone slab from all the other artifacts and set up an isolated chamber in the warehouse where most objects they received were processed. It was empty at the time, and they had hoped that that would assist the filly in whatever profound ability she was manifesting. She was nervous, surrounded by so many strange ponies in lab coats, but with a smile from her uncle she turned to the hunk of stone before her and began the spell.
There was no explosion this time, although she could hear whispers and see dim lights coming from the direction she assumed the museum was in. In front of her, the slab appeared as crisp as if it had been chiseled from her own mind, and she approached it. She laid an ear against the apparition and leapt back as the echoes of voices surged from her surroundings and into her thoughts.
“No, you dolt, don’t write it in the standard language.”
“I don’t follow. Who even reads runes any more? Why bother with all this secrecy?”
“The information we’re recording shall be reserved for the Unicorn Kingdom and the Unicorn Kingdom alone. We don’t want one of those outrageous Pegasi or... an Earth pony, Elements forbid, tainting our knowledge with their unworthy cultures.”
“So why even write it down?”
“Because at some point in the future, somepony is going to need to know the spell for raising the sun.”
“Well, I suppose. But if I’m not to write it in the standard runic language, what shall you have me do?”
“Use a cypher or some little-known dialect, I don’t care. Make it look like a shopping list, whatever. It’s imperative the information be available only to those desperate enough to use it.”
“So if I were to...”
The words faded and reality slapped Strata in the face. She panicked momentarily, scrambling back from the inquiring scientists until she connected with her uncle’s legs and wrapped herself around them, cowering.
“Back off, you sharks! Whatever happened, it traumatized her. Get away, I say! Shoo!”
“It raises the sun.”
The group paused, various museum staff members stopping mid-sentence to look at the shivering foal.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” one of them stuttered. “Only Celestia can raise the sun.”
“The ancient unicorns did it, and you all know that. I learned it during my first Hearth’s Warming Eve!”
“Well, yes, but unicorns can’t do it any more! Only an Alicorn has the power. Besides, the spell was lost centuries ago, and that worthless rock can’t help. It’s a shopping list, for Celestia’s sake.”
“It’s a cypher.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the stallion scoffed, turning to inspect the relic. “Runic Cyphers are incredibly easy to decode. It’s only a matter of finding which symbol is replaced with which. Converting this list would only create a mess of random letters. Like, if I swapped the first letter for Fe, then it changes ‘Lettuce’ into... into... Good lord.”
“What is it, sir? The stallion’s colleagues leaned in, prodding their leader.
“It changes ‘Lettuce’ to ‘Ortus’, meaning ‘Sunrise’.”
Strata broke from her trance, smiling at the memory of those scientists’ faces. Ever since then, she had been travelling far across Equestria in search of lore and legend. She would find artifacts and, with the glimpses of the past they gave her, uncover the history of Equestria. Upon returning home she would sell the relics for a hefty price, which suited her just fine.
Everypony in Equestria knew the story of the Elements of Harmony and their defeat of the Nightmare in these hallowed halls which Strata now walked. Few of them, however, knew the tale of the Nightmare’s rise and fight with Celestia. Those taught the legend explain it as Luna’s jealousy overcoming her, but Strata had a different idea. Footnotes in dusty scrolls and fairy tales passed onto misbehaved foals had hinted at a different cause of Luna’s corruption. After nearly a month of nonstop reading in the freshly-unveiled Crystal Empire Library, the mare had figured she had found the true meaning behind the war between the sisters.
Not that many would believe her without proof, of course. The purple mare at the Ponyville library had laughed at her when Strata divulged her theory.
“I’ve fought the Nightmare, and I’ve fought what you’re looking for. You won’t find either anymore. Besides, they’re nothing alike.”
I suppose even an Element can be stuck up, she had thought. She kept her words to herself, however. The purple mare had provided her with free lodging and several hours of thrilling conversation about the history of Canterlot’s sewer system, so she wasn’t all bad. At the end of her stay, the librarian had even offered to come check up on Strata after a day or two. She had declined, of course, though it wasn’t a matter of pride. The umber mare was humble and knew her limits, but she was certain the offer was made simply because it was the polite thing to do, and didn’t wish to burden a pony who had saved the country four different times.
Strata could handle herself, anyway. She had made the trek through the confusing woods fast enough, and managed to steer clear of most of the wild animals. At one point she had wandered into a pack of timberwolves, but had thought quickly and managed to get by them with a spare roll of dragonhide. Aside from that, the journey had been uneventful, and she had arrived at the ruins in good time.
She had stopped at the entrance to the destroyed castle, taking in what she could see through the fog. The stone walls were still standing to an extent, reaching up towards a jagged end. There was no telling how high the roof had been; even the great, vine-riddled pillars in her view seemed to have been fractured at the same height as the walls. Oddly enough, there was nearly no rubble—it was as if the top half of the grand entrance had simply vanished and only the remains of the fortifications had been subject to a millenium of exposure. In fact, the entire room was practically spotless, completely devoid of any leaves from the surrounding forest. She stepped back and closed her eyes, preparing to search for any traces of a magical artifact.
The entire castle appeared in her vision, a silhouette of grand construction. No lights or voices emitted from the shadow, a strange albeit not unheard of occurrence to Strata. Only once or twice in her career had she encountered a relic that blocked all mental imaging, and once again countless hours of research had given her an explanation. As well as the whole castle appearing instead of a single object, the place was a millenium old. It made sense for it to be considered antique, she reasoned.
She gulped before pressing open the wide wooden doors. Her experience with blacked-out images in her mind told her only one thing about the ruins: they had been embalmed in magic, a feat which she had never seen done with any form of trivial enchantments.
“That explains why the wooden doors have fared better than the marble,” she mused, allowing her curiosity to shout over her anxiety.
As she lay by the stone wall, examining the statue that had once held the Elements of Harmony, a stray thought worked its way in her head.
I don’t remember closing those doors.
She turned her head cautiously, examining the massive wooden gates at the far end of the room. Judging by the ungodly squeal she had heard when she first opened them, there would have been no way for anything or anyone to slam the heavy doors shut without her noticing. Yet there they were, completely sealed.
She approached the entryway tentatively, doing her best to shoo the thoughts of entrapment from her mind. If the doors were locked, she’d have to climb over the crumbled slabs of rock. An inconvenience more than a deadly plan, surely, so she ignored her worries and tested the latch on the door.
It swung open as easily as any thousand-year old hinge would, giving full access to the foggy night beyond.
Foggy day, she reassured herself, before exiting the castle. She turned back, and the desolate ruins remained. With a shrug she re-entered the building, dismissing her concerns to whatever curse had immortalized it. She tested her suspicions by glancing over her shoulders. The door was closed.
Strata shook her head, scolding herself for becoming so distracted by such a meaningless mystery. She flopped onto her haunches, letting her eyelids droop so as to search for the object she was sure had to be here. Almost immediately, she opened them in shock. There was no image that came to her, but the haunting noise of a tormented scream echoed in her mind.
“No, that can’t be right....”
She clenched her eyes shut, her horn glowing furiously as she concentrated on filtering out whatever spells must have interfered. The screaming still called to her, distant at first, though rising in a crescendo of agony until it became unbearable. Strata struggled not to lose focus as she stood, allowing her magic to guide her to her target. It was not the effort of walking blind that troubled her. It was the pain, the anger, the pure and chaotic hate that sickened her, and with each step the rage in her head gained volume exponentially. She could smell the sound, a distinct vagueness of blood, bile, and brimstone.
The revulsion, the anger, the incredible rancor; all these emotions assaulted Strata. Tears that were not hers rolled down from eyes that were. Her muscles tensed as if she were preparing to take on an army of creatures formed from her deepest fears. To her surprise, racist thoughts surfaced and sprayed out of her mouth. She found herself cursing and spitting, stomping with disgust at all the lesser creatures that formed the worthless land of Equestria. Those scum trotted across the plains and mountains like they had some sort of right to be there. They were trespassers and thieves, yes. She thought of killing them all, but quickly disregarded that consideration. Corpses couldn’t follow orders, and with all the work that she would need done to convert Equestria to her new dark empire, she’d need all the ponies she could get.
No, that wasn’t it. She didn’t need ponies. Magic could do all the work she’d ever need to turn this country into the industrial superpower she’d need to encompass the world. How silly of her, she thought, to believe she was dependant on those runts. She didn’t need slaves for construction or resource mining. Strata laughed at herself. She needed them for toys.
What in the Element’s name am I thinking?
Strata opened her eyes and collapsed as the malevolence drained from her skull. She rested for the moment, orienting herself and inspecting where she had been led by that infernal agony.
The first thing she noticed was the large canopy bed at the far end of the room. It too was constructed of the marble which comprised most of the castle. The midnight blue fabric swayed as if caught in a breeze, a fact Strata quickly picked up on as she noted that the billows of fog outside remained undisturbed. She approached the bed shakily, her body still tired from the strange emotions which had overtaken her.
Strata jabbed at the mattress, testing for any sort of siren songs or intense fatigue to wash over her. Relieved that the darkest thing the bed did was exist, she climbed up on it and sat, using it both as a vantage point and an excuse to recuperate. Somewhere in the room, she thought, a monument forged from wrath lay hidden.
Strata looked over the remaining half of the walls, seeing the moonlit treetops spread for miles. Whatever tower she was in, it stood taller than any other structure in the ruins. In the center of the room a mosaic made of onyx was set into the floor. Strata craned her neck, examining the detail in the cloud-shaped splotch of black stone. A crescent moon lay in the center, carved of brilliant white granite.
“Luna’s cutie mark,” Strata mused, looking past it. She doubted any dark magic could be concealed by something as holy as a Princess and former Element’s symbol, so she dismissed that location. She continued to glance about, noting the composition of the mortar and stone used to construct the room. Unfortunately, no section of wall appeared to be fabricated differently, and she discarded another theory.
“Perhaps the cei-”
The moon glared at her, and she smacked her hoof to her forehead.
The wall to the right of her field of view housed a majestic hearth, one of the only objects with any intricate detail she had come across since entering this abnormal acropolis. The soot-stained bricks had been carved into a multitude of designs, all reminiscent of the stained-glass windows back at Canterlot. Pointy-legged ponies danced around a bonfire as stars and clouds twinkled above them. Next to that was a foal, dreaming with a smile on its face. Strata stepped down from the bed and moved to the fireplace. She ran a forehoof over the carvings, following some sort of tale without any plot. As she rotated around the bricks from the edge facing the bunk, the ponies depicted grew fewer and less ecstatic. The second-last scene was naught but a bundle of firewood where the bonfire would have taken place. The sun was rising in the background, its rays hastily carved.
No, not hastily, she realized. Something had scratched at it, cut away at the beautiful craftsmanship, and desecrated the once-perfect rendition of Celestia’s burden.
The next scene was simply a childish circle with a diagonal gouge across it. The brick had been attacked, and it remained slightly out of place. Strata’s horn glowed as she smiled, lifting the brick out of its housing. She reached in eagerly, ready to snatch her prize and return home to study it. She pulled out her hoof, and her smile deflated with the sight of her blackened leg. The dejected mare returned to the bed, climbing back on the stone mattress for a better look around the room.
She paused, tapping the slab absentmindedly. “At one point in time,” she spoke aloud, “this bed would have been covered in straw, for comfort.” She tapped it again, thinking. “A point in time that would have, much like the rest of this abandoned building, been frozen for a millennium.” She brought her hoof down hard, only once, and listened as the clop echoed throughout the room. “A point in time when no royalty would dare subject themselves to discomfort.” She placed her ear on the mattress, pounding once again. The noise reverberated around her, but she almost swore the knock came to her twice. She rolled around and stared directly below her. Knowing now that she’d only see smothering darkness, she elected to keep her eyes open. After taking a breath to prepare for the screaming, she opened her mind to history with a flash from her horn.
There was no noise this time—nothing she could hear, anyways—but her head ached as though an apple farmer had kicked in her temple. A kaleidoscope of pain clouded her vision and she flinched as a spray of blood shot out of her nose, coating the cold rock with a fine pink mist. She gave up her spell immediately, certain now of the hiding spot of her treasure and mildly concerned about the several years at the end of her life which she believed had just escaped her. Hopping down, and desperately trying to ignore the steady drip of fluids from her muzzle, she dug her hooves into the ground and focused on lifting the massive slab from its resting place.
Despite her prowess with her seeking spell, Strata was not particularly adept at higher level telekinesis. She grunted and groaned, the cobalt aura pulsating around her horn as she clenched her entire body. She could feel the weight of the massive stone crushing her, her magic making the job only marginally easier than if she had simply tried to move it by hoof. Her bones shivered under the weight and threatened to splinter if subjected to any more abuse when the block shifted and lifted. It wavered an inch or so from its base, tempting the mare, urging her to push past her limits for the sweet prize inside. Strata found herself crying with every bit the gap widened, until-
“Aha!”
She dropped the lid, allowing it to fall haphazardly, and turned as the eruption of dust from the bed coated every strand of her mane. There, sequestered away for centuries upon centuries, lay Strata’s prize. She had managed to lift the slab up just enough to see inside by the glow of her magic. A perfectly formed crystal created of a substance blacker than any black she had ever seen shimmered in the scintillating light, and Strata felt a calling like no other to retrieve it. Gathering artifacts was her career, but from the moment she laid her eyes upon that gem, her whole life became about saving it.
The archaeologist sauntered up to the prison, vividly imagining all the great and awful things she would do with the treasure. Having secured it, the world would be hers and hers alone. Visions of gold and castles and slaves danced in her head, and with the smuggest sense of superiority she reached for the precious crystal.
Her hoof connected with cold rock, and Strata’s mind instantly cleared. She stared at her leg, marvelling at her incredible lapse of intelligence.
What the Tartarus just happened? C’mon Strata, you’re better than that. You don’t even know what this thing does yet, or why it’s hidden. You can’t just grab it.
“Weird,” she said, immediately dismissing the slip as exhaustion from the spell. Suitably reassured she could think properly again, Strata surveyed her situation.
Her magic was a terrible option for properly opening the cask. With the same amount of effort, she could move it physically, without any setbacks from losing her concentration. She paced through the immediate area, searching for any sort of lever.
“Rocks, dust, and moldy wood.” She sauntered back into the bedroom, sighing. “Excellent. Just... fantastic.” Strata looked up for some location to hang a pulley and found herself consulting the moon. “Just absolutely wonderful,” she said. Flopping onto her haunches, she glared at the hidden treasure. It was so close! She had traversed a haunted forest, subjected herself to emotional torture to find its source, and now it lay beneath a ton of rock, mocking her silently.
Perhaps even not so silently, Strata thought, climbing to her hooves. She could feel the magic poking at her brain, taunting her, chuckling at her feeble attempts at uncovering it. It was mocking her, she knew it! In a fury, she spun around and bucked the concrete one more time, her rage actually sliding it back an inch or so.
“Stupid! Slab! Of! Stupid! Rock! Stupid artifact! Stupid tower! Stupid castle! Stupid forest! Stupid stupid stupid!” She screamed, alternating between rear legs with the recoil of each buck. With every shout the block scuffed back, and the teasing voice in Strata’s head grew louder. She risked a glance back, seeing that for all her anger, she had only moved it half a foot.
“DUMB ROCK!” Strata burst, kicking one last time. A roar of cracking stone swallowed the echoes of her shout, knocking the mare onto the floor in confusion. She rolled over and coughed the dust from her lungs, gasping. The casket was broken completely in two—slab, bed, and all. She thought she could see an emerald light glowing behind the concrete, calling her closer. She blinked, and the light was gone.
“Must have been the blow to the head,” she mused, rubbing behind her ear. She had fallen hard after breaking the case, and all of the effort she exerted opening it seemed to return to her at that instant. She did not feel well. Her legs quivered, the muscles burning with pins and needles, as if at any moment they might vanish from beneath her body. Her upper back complained, and a wave of sweat pulsed from her pores as her flesh gave up. Even her fur seemed to ache, and Strata winced as every follicle sounded off, decrying the abuse they had to endure. She was sweaty, she was tender, and she was tired. She wanted nothing more than to claim her treasure and begin the long walk home.
She brushed herself off and climbed to her hooves, groaning, before stumbling forward and leaning heavily on the remains of the bed. The black crystal was in plain sight, simply resting there, giving no indication of any reaction to the violent opening of its tomb. Despite her better judgement, Strata allowed her eyes to fall shut and—hesitating for only a moment--performed her spell.
The crystal was totally silent. There were no voices, no screaming, no images or thoughts of hate and violence like before. The crystal alone lay in her mind’s eye, with no extra detail save for the dullest throb of light at its core. Strata opened her eyes and looked at the artifact curiously. Often, she ran into trouble from accidentally awakening magic in the objects she sought. Now, however, all her efforts had seemed to put the crystal to sleep.
“Good,” she said, writing the curiosity off. There would be plenty of time to study the crystal later, at home, with all the proper tools and minds required. Sleeping magic made for easy travelling, anyway. She reached out and grabbed the crystal, pausing only long enough to ensure touching it wouldn’t vaporize her, and dropped it into her saddle bag.
Finally, Strata thought, walking briskly out of the room, I can get out of this creepy time-locked castle. I hope this artifact can explain what really happened here, she mused, turning her head around to actually look at the mysterious half-walls and starry sky. She hadn’t taken the time to truly examine the walls before—she had opted instead to search for her treasure—so she wasn’t sure if the abundance of mold growing between the bricks had been there when she arrived. The walls themselves seemed lower than before, too. Tricks of the mind, Strata concluded.
She arrived at the great oak doors and sighed in relief. From there, and with careful travelling through the forest, it would only take her a couple more hours to arrive back at the library. Fantasies of hope and grandeur formed in her mind, and Strata allowed herself to indulge in the images for once. She knew that humility was the most protective attribute one could have, but it was always fair to entertain a dream—once in awhile, that is. She imagined the museum’s board of directors applauding her for her discovery. She imagined Princess Celestia personally congratulating her for discovering what had truly happened, and she imagined seeing the relief in Princess Luna’s eyes as the cause of her corruption became revealed. She imagined becoming a legend of her own.
Swimming in pride, Strata pushed the doors open and strode into the forest, basking in the rich orange glow of the setting sun as it filtered through the treetops. She would have continued walking almost blind with ego had an incredible gust of cold wind not streamed past her, stripping her of all the warmth in her body. It was over in an instant and, while the blast had spooked Strata, it had also invigorated her. With newfound strength came newfound temperance to deal with the strange and the frustratingly confusing. Strata turned around, absorbing the scene without any expression save for the smallest amount of curiosity she felt she could spare.
The castle was gone, vanished, as if it had never been there. No, wait, that’s not quite right, she corrected herself, leaning close to the ground. Large quantities of sand and pebbles covered the forest clearing, and Strata could just see the details of the layout of the walls: slightly taller mounds of dust around the perimeter of the gravel, branching inwards to plot what were rooms not a minute ago. The castle hadn’t disappeared, it had aged. A thousand years of erosion, kept at bay by a small, perfectly formed crystal hidden under a bed, had caught up with the historic site and devoured it in a second.
Despite the oddity of the castle ceasing to exist, it was not what captured the majority of Strata’s intrigue. Not far past the gravel pile lay a fairly extensive fairgrounds, a carnival of sorts, once hidden by the castle’s bulk but now purely visible despite the fortress’ magic supposedly having died.
Oh, right. The Summer Sun Festival!
Strata began hurrying towards the fairgrounds, trotting as the excitement for history grew in her. It had originally been her research into the Summer Sun Festival that had led to her formulating her theory about the Princess’ corruption. The fairgrounds would have been the remnants of the first celebration after the loss of the Crystal Empire, and the Crown had attempted to save their culture by basing the Festival off the Crystal Empire’s jubilations. Strata had read an incredible amount about the events of this fair, of the fateful night that never ended, and could not resist viewing it firsthoof.
She slowed her gait as she passed the tattered canopies, noticing with some disappointment that the fair had not been saved from dilapidation to the same extent as the castle. Wood supports rotted with excessive decay, and Strata scrunched her nose as the scent of dead insects and rodents accosted her. She turned a corner, careful not to disturb any of the tents lest they splinter and collapse on her. Any indication as to the purpose of any of the stands had long been destroyed. Bits of cloth and stuffing tumbled by Strata in the light breeze, stopping only when lodged against the rusted parts of what appeared to be attempts at recreating flugelhorns.
Looking around another corner she spotted the pavilion center and began galloping towards it. If there’s anything to see here, she reasoned, it would be there. She leaned down, rushing towards her goal as if being driven or chased by some unseen monster. As soon as the clickety-clack of her hooves on bricks changed to a duller clop, she slowed and looked up, examining the strange device that appeared before her.
It was a massive, circular machine, built to resemble the tents and stands that surrounded her yet still clearly out of place. Strata approached it, examining the intricate carnival designs molded into the metal. Slivers of peeling paint indicated that the object had been the centerpiece of the entire festival.
“This must have been some sort of ride,” Strata said aloud, working it out to herself. “Yes, I see it. They’d step onto the platform, like so.” She acted as she spoke, stepping up off the dirt and onto the metal stage. “And then it would spin, and they’d hold onto the bars.” As she finished her sentence, a childlike glee warmed up inside her. Most of the bars had buckled or rusted beyond repair, but she could just imagine how shiny and attractive they might have once been. She walked away from the remaining bars, trying to find a clearer patch of art in hopes of finding how the machine ran.
Ten minutes later, she smacked her head with her hoof. I could just use my spell. This thing must have been so important, it has to have history in it!
Strata threw her saddlebag off, allowing it to slide towards the center of the carousel. If she did accidentally start the machine, she’d be able to better keep her balance unburdened. She braced herself near where a pole would have been, lowered her head, and concentrated.
For half a second she could see brilliantly happy memories, memories of joy and love and excitement; she could feel the collective emotions of all the old citizens of Equestria as they waited for the sun to rise. Strata could almost feel her body lifting off the platform from the happiness it emanated, but then—
Fear. Worry. Anxiety. Ponies running in panic. The sun had not risen, and the Princess was nowhere to be found. Night would not end. And then, amidst all the fright and sadness, Strata could feel a very raw emotion. It was quiet, at first, but grew with such immense power she could even tell where it was coming from. The emotion had burst from the castle, obliterating the walls as it surged from the windows and rushed towards the fair like a spectral river. Before Strata could open her eyes, the memory of unbridled hatred washed over her and the carousel, contacting the saddlebag.
The crystal’s dull throbbing light exploded in Strata’s mind, overcoming her consciousness and freezing her body still. She struggled, fighting the magic’s hold over her, and managed to open her eyes.
The hatred did not stop growing, and her mind became clouded with racist and elitist thoughts—thoughts of murder, of genocide, of deceit and mercilessness. As Strata fought the feelings molesting her brain, she registered the platform shaking. The carousel slowly started moving, restoring itself as it went, breaking the rust off of unwilling gears and sparking as lights burst back to life. A simple, innocent tune started playing from the core, and as Strata heard it, all the other noises in her head ceased.
She could still not lift her hooves. They were dead with exhaustion, almost melded to the very machine she struggled to leave. The carousel still turned, and the music still played, and Strata forced herself to relax and examine the situation.
Okay, Strata, it’s okay. You can get out of this. You can do it. You just need to-
“These are not my crystal ponies,” a stallion’s voice hissed. “You are not the vessel I require.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will not be able to accomplish the tasks I require to regain control over these stolen lands,” the voice sneered.
Strata wanted to cry; she had never been spoken to with such ferocity and condemnation in her entire life. She was trapped, she was helpless, and now she was being abused. In a matter of minutes, her life had taken a complete turn for the worse.
“S-so you will let me go, right? Since you have no need for me?”
The crystal flashed sharply, and the carousel quaked under Strata for a second time. The metal beneath her stomach bubbled with black energy, and without any warning a thick, shiny pole erupted from the platform and punctured Strata’s chest, tore out of her back, and rocketed to the roof on the device.
The archeologist shook violently, unable to register the pain, until her vision finally went black. All that remained were two bright, green eyes, locked onto her own with pupils that glowed like embers. They were the last thing Strata would ever see.
* * *
“Haha, c’mon sis, what’s the matter? Too chicken to brave the Everfree Forest?”
A foal sat next to the thicket, his light blue coat contrasting with the overgrown entrance. Long ago it had been the main access to the Everfree forest, but now was so thick that only a small foal could venture through. The few citizens of Ponyville who once dared to make their homes in the forest had all absconded, leaving no reason for anypony to walk its haunted grounds.
“Leave me ‘lone, Trotter! I’m not chicken, I’m jus’ smart is all.” A pink earth filly flopped onto the dusty ground, pouting. “Momma says that foals that go into the Everf’ee fowest get gobbled up by manticores and shadows!”
“Momma just doesn’t want you having nightmares and wetting the bed again, sis. Buc-buc-buc-BUCAWK!”
“Stop it! I think the Everf’ee weawwy is dangawous. If it’s weawwy as safe as you say it is, then why do all da adults stay away too?”
“I’m sorry sis, I don’t speak chicken. I bet you ten bits you can’t spend more than five minutes alone in there.”
“Ten bits?”
“Ten bits.”
“That’s a wot of sugar wicks...”
“Enough for three down at Sugarcube.”
“Awight, deal!” The filly stood up indignantly, making her way towards the tiny gap in the vines. “Ten bits!” she shouted, pointing a hoof at her brother.
“Ten bits, I have them right here,” he nodded, fishing them out of a bag. “Now hurry up already!”
“Okay. Five minutes, startin’ now.”
“Oh no you don’t, Taffy Drop.” A purple aura wrapped around the filly as her hoof stretched outwards into the forest. Despite Taffy’s objections, the magic pulled her back and set her firmly on the ground. “That’s not safe for anypony, especially a little foal like you.”
“M-miss Twilight! We were just having a little fun is all, no reason to-”
“Quiet, Trotter. Now,” Twilight said, settling down between the foals and the forest. “We’re going to have a little story, okay?”
“Awww,” the pair whined, falling onto each other.
“Which one is it now?” Trotter asked. “The grasshopper and the ant? Some blind mice?”
“You be nice, I happen to know those mice. No. This is a new story to you two.”
The foals blinked, surprised by the idea of a story they had never heard before. They sat up properly, getting comfortable in the rough grass outside Ponyville. The sun was high in the sky, but Taffy Drop felt cold being near the forest. Without another word, she nodded to Twilight, who began.
“A long time ago, in this very forest, a researcher decided she wanted to prove how brave and clever she was. So she ventured far into the Everfree forest, fighting monsters and shadows, until she came across a mysterious clearing.”
The kids hugged each other, feeling unease as the forest seemed to loom behind the old mare before them.
“There were new and unusual machines in this clearing, and the researcher, being curious, decided she would investigate the machines and show the world how brave and clever she was by making them work again. And so the researcher started trying different kinds of magic on the machine, allowing her ego to light the way.”
“What happened to the researcher?”
“Almost there, Trotter. Eventually, the forest got mad with the researcher’s magic, and told a machine to play a trick on her.”
“Oh no!” Taffy Drop brought her hoof to her mouth, shocked.
“The machine was what you foals know as a carousel, where ponies of all ages would climb aboard and ride for fun. But this carousel was tired of being ridden on and used for entertainment. So, when the forest asked the machine to play a trick on the researcher, it played a very mean trick, a very mean trick indeed!”
“What did the machine do?”
“It made the researcher part of the ride, capturing her and forcing her to spin, forever and ever, for the entertainment of little brave and clever foals just like you,” Twilight said, pausing for the last three words to sink in. “And,” she continued, “it’s said that maybe, just maybe, one day the researcher will grow tired, and the forest will ask her to play a trick, and those foals will become part of the ride too.” She sat back, staring warily at the children.
“I dun wanna be a wide!” Taffy Dot cried, scrambling to her hooves. She turned around and ran back to town, shouting something about forgetting sugar licks. Trotter sat still, looking at the ground.
“Miss Twilight?”
“Yes, Trotter?”
“What’s the name of that story?”
“Well, little colt, it’s not actually a story. It’s known,” she leaned down, picking the pony up and hugging him, “as the Legend of Strata.”
Author's Note
I'd like to thank Jabberwocky Superfly and Autumn Wind for their much-appreciated work with editing and tossing concepts back and forth.
I'd also like to thank DevilHooves for the original images that inspired this story, as well as Tetrapony for the lovely cover art.
