Lyrid
Long ago, there lived a pony unlike any other. She hailed from the town of Ponyville, deep in the heart of a land once called Equestria. She had a heart of gold and a lyre to match. Music flowed from her like a spring from the mountains—every note a drop of beauty. None could match the grace and form of her music, for her talent came from the one she loved.
The mare she called her own was of unparalleled beauty—not of body, as many sought with lustful eye, but of soul, of hidden kindness and cheer. She, like the Muse, cared for her craft and poured her heart into the candies she made. It made them—and her—all the sweeter. And this is what had won the Muse’s heart.
She was the sun, the moon, the stars. She was the sound of birds in the trees, and the rush of water upon the riverbed. She was the one for whom the Muse played.
And this music held magic beyond any other. The trees of the forest grew taller, and the grass of the fields grew greener than anywhere in Equestria. Creatures big and small gathered to listen, as did other ponies. They flocked from surrounding villages to hear the Muse’s voice chime like the sweetest of bells and her lyre sing of her lover’s soul—the purest in the land. Hearts melted like wax to the flames of their love, and all proclaimed it the greatest in the history of Equestria.
But fate is cruel.
One summer’s night, the Muse crept into the forest, to a willow that kissed the winding river with its many branches. She desired calling her lover out by moonlight, to sing her into her hooves within the solace of nature. A quiet lullaby she played—slow and serene like a falling leaf. None could have heard its soft melody but her lover. The mare rose from her bed, still dreaming, and followed her siren into the night. But she knew not of the warren between them, or the viper that slept within.
A careless hooffall brought her a swift end.
All mourned her passing, but none as greatly as the Muse. The sun was like ice upon her skin, and food like ash upon her tongue. She shed not a tear, for no single drop could bear such sorrow. Into her music she poured her sadness, beneath the willow where her lover had been laid to rest. The willow wept, and the forest fell silent.
Day and night. Rain and snow. By her side the Muse stayed, her lamentation everlasting. So filled with grief was her song that when Winter ended and the snow retreated from the land, the green of Spring took not its place. The trees remained bare, and the grass refused to grow.
It was then that the Muse realized she could no longer live there. With the heaviest of hearts, she left her lover’s side and departed from the forest.
Across Equestria she traveled. From Fillydelphia to Manehattan. From Trottingham to Farrington. She played her sorrow for the masses, swaying and breaking countless hearts. She became famous throughout the land, but the life of a travelling lyrist held no comfort, did nothing to lessen the pain. Only holding the mare for whom she played could end her torment.
But as it so happened, one evening the Princess of the Sun attended her performance. So moved was she that she requested an audience with the Muse. Behind curtains drawn tight, she whispered of her own regrets and the torture that had wrenched her heart for a thousand years. She knew unspeakable grief like the Muse. And it was out of empathy that she spoke of fire and brimstone beyond the furthest reaches of the world—of a place no living pony dared tread. The name was like rotten meat upon her tongue: Tartarus. The Land of the Dead.
Souls of the departed resided there under the eternal reign of a god whose name she dared not utter. And they could return if the living one’s love was great enough.
The Muse left that very night.
Far across Equestria she traveled in search of Tartarus. She played her mourning all through her journey, and nature bowed before her. Mountains made themselves low, and rivers ran dry to harbor safe passage, so moved with pity they were.
A year and a day it took her to find the End of the World. A blasted wasteland lapped against the border of Equestria like ocean waves upon a beach. No more would her journey be safe, but she pressed on.
Sulphur and ash burst from scars in the earth. Caverns and crags held beasts of scale and claw. Her song held their yellow eyes and slavering teeth at bay. Not a day did she rest, nor a night did she sleep, lest her song falter and they close in.
Soon she came to a great cliffside that reached higher than the eye could see. A gate of blackest iron stood fast in its face, and titanic skeletons stood guard.
Their bones rattled cries of war as she approached, and hatred plumed red from their hollow eyes. They raised spears longer than flagpoles and marched forward. But the Muse feared them not.
She sat upon the dust of the earth and played for them a song. A tune of heroism it was, of the Knights of Old that had once defended the proud borders of Equestria. Her music took shape as a great phalanx of the ancient army. Their might shone about her like the gold of the armor they wore millennia ago as they again lead the thunderous charge.
So scared were the guardians that they fled, their spears abandoned at their post. The gate swung open, and without a word, the Muse entered.
The blackest of nights could not compare to the darkness within. It was as if this place had never known the loving kiss of the sun or the gentle caress of the moon. Downward it led on steps of jagged stone, far into the bowels of the earth. The stench of burning flesh stifled the air. And slowly, the darkness grew red as fire.
Great flames rose like pillars to hold up an unseen sky. The ghosts of the newly dead walked in a trance toward a gate of stone, past the devilish Cerberus. Three heads did it have of monstrous size—larger than the greatest of ponies—that hunted for mortal intruders. Only the dead were allowed to set hoof in this unholy realm.
But little did the Muse care for its ferocity. She stood before the beast, unflinching as it gnashed its teeth and charged to claim her as Tartarus’ newest victim. She raised her lyre and played three songs, one for each of its great heads.
For the left, the Muse sang a lullaby to cradle it to sleep. Then she strung a ballad of war so bloody to sate the middle. Finally the right she blinded with tears full of heartache and her quest for love. And so it was that the mighty Cerberus, Guardian of the Damned, Devourer of Armies, came to a stop and laid itself down. There it still lays, silent and unmoving under the Muse’s trance, guarding the Underworld no longer.
Never before had a mortal stepped hoof into the Land of the Dead. The char and ash bemoaned her every step, and the loitering dead gazed with empty, unblinking eyes. Far into this forsaken realm she went. The walls became bones, and the ground like flesh. It was with a heavy heart that she knew she must find the master of the realm, the one the Sun Goddess feared.
He resided upon a throne blacker than night, His skin was as white as the ghosts He ruled, and His eyes were full of a malice that could have killed the Muse if He so desired. Beside Him sat His wife, the Queen of the Damned. Fair beyond measure she was, but hollow with life she wished not to live, for she too was a prisoner here.
The King spoke when the Muse came near, and His voice echoed with the wailing of the dead. He asked the Muse the reason for her trespass, why she had defied the very nature of His kingdom.
The Muse answered simply, asking for her lover. But He denied it. The mare she desired was His. Forever.
But the Muse was determined. As she had for the mighty Cerberus, the Muse sat, closed her eyes, and played—feeling the music flow through her, caress her like the hooves of the one she sought. She played for Him a song of love and loss, of roses in bloom withering to dust. Her notes danced upon the light of stars, and pooled in banks upon the river where the Muse and her lover had lain. They chirped with birdsong and rang with bells. It was the most beautiful song to ever grace the world, for it was the one she had strung the very night she proposed.
The Muse ended her song, and the blackened halls fell silent. She rose from the earth and stood tall before the King. He was not swayed; his mouth held no frown, and his cheeks held no tear.
He shouted above the echoing wails, demanding she leave and never return, that she had failed and would bear her shame until the day she would return in death. But the Queen stopped Him. She begged Him to grant the Muse her wish, convinced Him both souls would be his in the end.
The King was silent. Cold, calculating. It was after a long while that He granted the Muse her wish on one condition: her lover’s soul would follow behind, and until the sunlight touched her lover’s ghost she was not to look over her shoulder, or she would again become His for all eternity. The Muse thanked them both and left.
She travelled back through the darkness, past the mindless dead, past the silent Cerberus, trusting that her lover followed. She could feel her presence as a soft chill on the back of her neck and a tug at her heart that cried for her to look, to know that she was there. But the Muse refused to turn, knowing the King’s condition.
She found the stairs again and she began to climb. The heat of the Underworld pressed in, making every breath impossible. Her hooves were heavy, the steps crumbled beneath her weight. Their pebbles scattered into the darkness behind her, where not a hoofstep was heard. The urge to look, to know her lover walked behind in silence, grew.
The light of the upper world appeared as a speck in the distance, and hope blossomed. Memories of her lover sprang forth like the grasses and flowers of the place they had called home long ago. The short days they spent in the shop, and the long nights they spent in repose. They gave strength to her step and will to her gaze, to fight the yearning in her heart. The Muse knew it would soon be home for them once again.
A cool wind rushed down to meet her, like those that danced in the treetops and made the willow tickle the river. It whistled a lullaby like the one her lover always did as the Muse closed her eyes for sleep. It was more beautiful than anything she had ever strung herself.
The Muse soon could see the sky at the end of the tunnel, and never before had it looked so blue. She climbed the final stair and was before the great iron gates, where the light of the sun was like a threshold back into the land of the living. Its radiance was warm upon her skin. The Muse breathed fully of the air and laughed, so glad that she had found the strength to prevail over the King. Filled with the joy of love reunited, she turned.
But joy became despair, as she saw her lover standing just beyond the darkness. The agreement had not been kept. Her lover’s ghost had not touched the sun. And as she gazed back with ghostly eyes, she mouthed in silence:
“Lyra."
And then she vanished like the morning mist.
The Muse left that forsaken realm alone, singing her lamentations anew. The beasts of the wasteland hid, and the mountains and rivers fled. She returned to her home in the forest, where the sun held no warmth and long were the days to come. There she stayed, setting her song upon the wind, never ending, as the forest died around her, until her time had come.
Some say that this place still exists—a forgotten land frozen in time by the Muse’s song. Among the barren trees and grassless fields stands the willow by the river. And if one were to go there and gaze into the empty riverbed, they could still faintly hear the Muse’s song echoing through the trees.
Author's Note
[Author’s Note: Special thanks to Belligerent Sock for his review of this story, and to Huussii for allowing the use of the cover art.]
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