Shedding Your Skin

The next morning came over the village before Briar had even had the chance to close her eyes, it seemed. In the blink of an eye, she’d found herself roused from Ironwood’s bed, stuffed with a half-dozen pastries, and sent out the front door so quickly that she still felt like she was spinning.

Now she found herself at Ironwood’s side as they made their way down the street. It wasn’t a very wide road—the village had only three, and this wasn’t even the largest—but with the buzz of activity all around, it was impossible for the street to feel empty.

Every villager, from every nook and cranny, had brought themselves out to decorate for the Summer Sun Celebration. Briar watched with wide eyes as flags and streamers of every color went up over the streets, their lengths flapping in the warm summer breeze. Stands selling everything from jewelry to cheese to linen had set up shop outside of every house; according to Ironwood, a merchant train had arrived early that morning, their wagons groaning with the weight of all of the goods they had to sell.

“So there I was,” Ironwood said, “only about five years old and with a stolen pie in my hooves. What do you think I was about to do?”

“I still don’t get why you were stealing pies if your parents could make more, anyway,” Briar said. She glanced to the side and grinned as a group of foals galloped past, tossing a ball between them. “And I thought you said you borrowed that pie.”

“Borrowed! Right!” Ironwood coughed. “Seeing the competition and all. Anyways, there I stood, borrowed pie in my hooves and a half-dozen angry merchants right outside the tent door. Of course, the only good idea in that case is to run away, right?”

“Makes sense.”

“Then again,” Ironwood went on, “it’s not the easiest thing to run away when you’re carrying a pie in your mouth that’s almost as wide as your head. After all, I needed all four hooves to run. So…”

“So what?” Briar asked. She eyed a passing merchant cart; from what she could make out beneath the covering cloth, at least part of the weight in there was books. She fixed the look of the cart and the stallion who’d been pulling it in the back of her mind. She knew which stand she’d be looking for later.

“I may or may not have actually been able to see where I was going,” Ironwood said, chuckling. “So, picture this: An all-but-blind foal not sure where to run, a horde of angry ponies chasing after him into the tent, and a very, very unstable central tent pillar.”

Briar’s hoof went to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

“I couldn’t see where I was going!” Ironwood protested. “And besides; how was I supposed to know that that particular tent had never finished putting up its support beams?”

“So you ran right into it?”

“Not me,” Ironwood said. “The pie did. The poor, innocent pie.”

Briar snickered. “And the tent came crashing down all around you?”

“And all six or seven of the ponies who’d bothered to chase after me. Fwoosh!” Ironwood grinned. “‘Course, I wasn’t about to stick it out there, so I hightailed my way out beneath the tent while the bigger ponies were still struggling with the fabric. Didn’t really get away, though, because the first merchant was waiting right outside the tent and nabbed me by the scruff before I could run away.”

“What’d he do?”

“Marched me right over to my parents and demanded that they pay for the pie and raise a better son.”

Briar glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did they?”

Ironwood grinned back. “Dad thought it was hilarious. Mom didn’t. I’ll spare you the details, but I’ll just say that I couldn’t sit down for a week—and no pie for a whole month.”

“Harsh,” Briar said. “Whatever happened to the merchant?”

“Oh,” Ironwood said, chuckling, “he still comes back every now and then.”

“And—”

Briar’s words were cut short by a blast of sound. It pierced through the air: a long, ragged note. It soon died down, but with a long, mourning call that left the windows rattling and the air buzzing.

Briar glanced around. “What was that?” she asked. All of the surrounding ponies had raised their snouts to the sky, listening as the last echoes of the sound splashed through the air.

“It’s the call to the opening ceremonies,” Ironwood said. He glanced toward her and grinned. “Come on, Briar!” He took her hoof in his and ran.

“Whoa—whoa!”

Ironwood laughed as he pulled her along, dodging between passers-by who were themselves heading toward the source of the call. Briar yelped and spun on her hoof, doing her best to avoid tripping over at least three separate mares on the way there. Each glared at her, though Briar found it hard to take seriously. They had nothing on Matron, after all.

“It’s just around this bend,” Ironwood said. “The village square.”

“The village—oof!”

Briar stumbled as she ran headfirst into what felt like a mountain. She collapsed back onto the ground.

She rubbed her snout tenderly with a hoof as her eyes tracked upward—and upward, and upward until she could at last see what she’d bumped into.

“There you two are,” Brioche rumbled, grinning down at her. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

“Miss the ceremonies?” Ironwood snorted. “Never!”

Flaxseed peered from around her giant husband and shushed him. “They’re about to start!”

Once Briar had managed to get to her hooves, she did her best to follow Ironwood and Brioches’ stares to see where she was supposed to look. Admittedly, every other pony in the audience was staring in the sample place. The giant, painted stage right in the middle of the square would have been pretty hard to miss, and Briar’s longer legs and neck let her see over the crowd without too much difficulty.

The crowd. She’d never seen so many ponies together in one place before. She should have felt afraid, should have felt uncomfortable, but all she felt was a searing warmth in her heart that told her that this felt right. What did Matron know, anyway?

And there were so many different ponies! Short ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones. The same horde of colts and fillies from before galloped past an elderly mare, giggling all the way. Some wore cloaks or bonnets, while other wore nothing at all.

The only non-distinguishing feature, it seemed, was the color of their fur. While a few scattered ponies were colored yellow, white, or even blue, the vast majority of the crowd was either grey or chestnut brown. Briar glanced down at her jet-black fur, the ends of her brilliant green mane waving in the edges of her vision. She shrank back slightly.

“Look!” Ironwood tugged on her mane and grinned when she turned to stare at him. “Up on the stage. They’re starting!”

Briar turned back to face the stage. A grey-coated stallion had stepped up onto the stage where he’d begun conversing with an older, plump-looking mare. He wore his bright orange mane in a ponytail behind his ears, and a white cloak sat over his haunches.

“That’s Yarrow, the mayor,” Ironwood said. “And Baba. She’s the head of the village council.”

A group of other ponies, older than most in the crowd, stood off to the side of the stage. Briar’s best guess was that they made up the rest of this “village council.” When the rest of them followed the mayor up into the center of the square, her suspicions were all but confirmed.

Briar watched as the mayor turned back from the council and trotted off to the stairs leading up to the stage. A shorter, golden-maned mare stood there waiting for him, a bonnet over her ears and her belly swollen over her haunches. The mayor leaned down and nuzzled her, their snouts brushing together as his foreleg came up to gently rub the mare’s side. The crowd’s cheers redoubled.

“That’s Yarrow’s wife,” Ironwood said over the din of the crowd. “She’s expecting any day now.”

The mayor pulled back from his wife, nodded, and turned to face the crowd. As he approached the center of the stage, the cheers intensified in volume—until he held up a hoof and the crowd went silent.

“Welcome!” Yarrow boomed. He held his chin high, though the smile he gave the crowd was genuine. “Welcome, to both old friends and new, to the festival of the Summer Sun Celebration!”

He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “We come together today to celebrate the bounty this land has given us, and to give thanks to the Sun for its warmth and light. Praise be to Celestia, in her castle of stars!”

“Praise be to Celestia,” the crowd shouted along with him. “In her castle of stars!”

“We gather here,” Yarrow continued, “to give thanks for friendship! For life, both old and new! Just as the fire of friendship is kindled on Hearth’s Warming Eve, so too is it stoked and renewed each Celebration.

“I would like to personally extend our welcome to the merchants and troubadours who arrived last night,” he went on. “They have made a long journey, and I hope that this festival leaves their hearts happy and their purses full.”

A wave of laughter went up from around the crowd. Yarrow smiled, waiting for it to subside before continuing on.

“Every able pony has contributed something to the Celebration this year. There are games, food, and joy aplenty. I would like to also thank you all for helping to make this a Celebration to remember.”

Another round of applause. Briar looked around in awe as the ground almost shook beneath the weight of so many thundering hooves.

“A few words before we begin,” Yarrow said. “The village council would like me to remind you all to stay safe and responsible for the duration of the festival. I would like to add to that my own words: Remember why we are here.”

He craned his neck up to the sky. “We gather today not only for revelry and joy, but to give thanks for what we are given. Praise Celestia, in her castle of stars.”

“Praise Celestia,” the crowd roared. “In her castle of stars!”

“Thank you!” Ironwood boomed. “And above all else, have fun! Enjoy the Celebration!”

A wave of cheers went up around the crowd, and a song erupted halfway across the square. All around them, ponies applauded, their hooves hitting the ground in a rumbling crescendo.

Briar blinked, grinned, and then joined in. She could feel the earth trembling beneath her hooves, could hear Ironwood laughing beside her as the song overtook the rest of the crowd.

She could feel the yank on her arm as Ironwood took her hoof in his and tugged her away.

“Come on!” he said, his face glowing in the morning light. “Let’s get going!”

The air blurred as he pulled her away from the crowd—and so did time itself, blurring across her vision like a whisper of wind. The day seemed like the rush of water over a cliff, crashing down from crest to pool with a mindless blur in between. It was only later, when the day’s frenzy had finally settled down, that Briar was able to recollect her thoughts.

She remembered the games. She’d barely knew what she was doing, but Ironwood had taken the time to explain each one. It had been visibly obvious that he was eager to get to his own turns, though, his tail shaking in the air as she lined up her first shots in the game called “bowling.” She’d cheered as she knocked down some of the pins waiting on the grassway, and laughed as Ironwood managed to fling his own ball forward without hitting one. He’d laughed too, and they’d sped to the back of the line to try again.

She remembered the stands, and the market. She’d almost been paralyzed in place at the sight of so much food. Somehow, Ironwood had managed to have enough coins saved up—”bits,” he called them—to buy enough food for the both of them, and then some. Her stomach had moaned its displeasure at feeling so terribly, terribly full, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so adventurous. She’d never heard of some of those foods!

She remembered the alleyway, too. She’d stood by the side of the road, snickering as Ironwood vomited up whichever bad fruit he’d managed to nab from one stand’s “free samples” pile. She’d teased him about it, chuckling when he punched her in the shoulder and stalked off, his face flushed a bright red.

She remembered the sound of music, the ponies singing and playing in glee. She’d never heard music before—not like this. Matron didn’t believe in singing, and as far as Briar knew, owned not a single musical instrument. But the music of the village—this pure, rising sound—filled her heart with warmth, lifting it up until she felt like she could soar into the skies.

She’d met more ponies than she could remember, and seen more sights than she could possibly understand. It’d been the most incredible, exhilarating day of her life.

Now, she lay upon a bed of soft straw, her hooves folded beneath her. A few other ponies filled the space—three foals, an older stallion, and a married couple—but she only felt the warmth of Ironwood’s coat against her side. The ground beneath her rolled and bounced every other second. The tall shape of the stallion pulling the hayride was silhouetted against the front of the cart, the steady clop-clop of his hooves and the giggling of the foals the only sound in the air.

Briar looked out between two of the wooden bars that made up the edge of the cart. Beyond, she could make out miles of fields. Tall stalks of wheat swayed in the evening breeze, the sunlight setting them ablaze with gold. A warm breeze picked up and Briar closed her eyes, feeling the brush of air against her head as her mane danced over her neck.

“I never expected the countryside to look like this,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“The forest is beautiful, too,” Ironwood said. “Remember everything you showed me? The lilies? The falls?”

“It’s not the same,” Briar said. “I’ve lived in the Everfree my entire life, but this…”

She held out a hoof, gesturing between the planks. “The Everfree is closed, and dark. This, though...there’s just so much of it. Don’t these fields ever end?”

“They probably do,” Ironwood said. “Though I’ve heard that some of them stretch all the way to Canterlot.”

“Canterlot,” Briar breathed. “I never knew that places outside of the forest could be so incredible.”

“Do you really think so?”

Briar looked up. “You know,” she said, “you usually can’t see much of the sky when you’re in the forest. You can see the Moon when you’re in a clearing, and maybe a few clouds or sunbeams when they get through the canopy, but here it’s so much different. I always thought the books were joking when they talked about the sky stretching from horizon to horizon.”

“Huh,” Ironwood said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “The skies just go on and on, and the clouds—they’re just so high up.”

She fell silent. For a moment, no sound passed between them save for the rattling of the cart upon the road.

“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to be a pegasus,” Ironwood said. “To be able to fly anywhere I’d want to. Nopony could stop me.”

To fly. Briar’s heart missed a beat.

To fly high above the treetops, never looking down, and never looking back. With wings, she could soar. With wings, she could fly free, leave Matron behind. She could follow Ironwood on whatever adventure they chose.

Canterlot. Saddle Arabia. She tasted the names on her lips. Did she want to fly?

“Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like that, too.”

It was traditional, Ironwood had told her, for the villagers to celebrate the night of the Summer Sun Celebration with fire: Fire to celebrate light, to celebrate life, and to celebrate the coming of the Sun. So Briar found herself sitting upon a log, her hooves upon her lap as a team of stallions built up the bonfire in the center of the clearing.

It’d been only a short walk from the village square, but it might as well have been miles away with the crowd blocking their way. Everyone came out for the Celebration, it seemed; if anything, the crowd seemed even larger than the one at the ceremonies that morning. Somehow, Ironwood had managed to find them seats right near the front of the crowd, close to the leaping sparks of the Summer Sun Flame. The fire cast flickering shadows over the crowd around it, some red, some gold, and each filled with light and warmth.

As Briar looked up over the crowd, she noticed Flaxseed and Brioche sitting at the other end of the crowd. Brioche raised a hulking arm to wave at her, and Briar tentatively lifted a hoof to wave back. A smile tugged at her lips.

“So what do you all do at one of these, anyway?” she asked, turning back to Ironwood. He sat beside her, his legs swinging and hooves tapping against the side of the log.

“Well, there’s singing,” he said. “Dancing, too. And there should be food around here somewhere.”

More food. Her stomach moaned pitifully at the thought. Briar nodded along as a thought came to mind. “Didn’t you say that there would be somepony here who might know something about my parents?”

Ironwood’s face lit up. “Right! Gladius always comes out to tell a story at the beginning of every Summer Sun Flame. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to catch him before he leaves the Celebration.”

“A story?”

He nodded. “Yup! He always has the best tales. I heard that he’s been all over Equestria, and learned every story there is!”

“That seems a bit much,” Briar said. “Can he really remember all of them?”

“Who knows?” Ironwood asked. “I hope he tells the story of the original Celebration, though. That one’s my favorite.”

“The original Celebration?”

He shot her a grin. “You’ll see.”

A quiet murmur went up through the crowd, and Briar straightened up, craning her neck to see over the heads of the ponies in front of her. Part of the crowd seemed to have parted halfway around the circle from them.

“What’s going on?” Ironwood asked.

“They’re all...moving out of the way,” Briar said. “I think there’s someone coming through.”

“That’s him!” Ironwood shushed her. “It’s Gladius!”

The murmuring rose to a fevered pitch as a shadowed figure became distinct in the crowd. It pushed ahead, a path clearing before it with each step it took toward the bonfire.

It was a stallion; that much was clear from the shape of the snout visible beneath its hood. A cape, tattered and patched with grey, was clasped around the stallion’s neck. He carried a staff, its long, twisted end thudding against the ground with every step.

Briar’s eyes widened when she realized that he was even taller than her. Not as large as Brioche, certainly, but tall enough for her to take notice.

Once Gladius—if that was his name—had reached the fire, he reached up to remove his hood. It fell to the base of his neck, revealing the face beneath.

He was old. He wasn’t ancient by any means, and almost certainly younger than Matron, but his every movement held a certain caution and purpose. His mane, silver and speckled with black, fell across his neck in a long, twisting tail. His snout was longer than most, and his jaw sharp and pronounced.

As Gladius turned to face their direction, Briar held in a gasp. A long, wicked-looking scar ran over one of his eyes, glinting scarlet in the firelight. The crowd fell silent, save for the quiet murmurings of young foals.

Then he spoke.

“This world is a cycle.” His voice was rough, yet rich. “Another season is upon us, and with it, the Solstice. This night, on the longest day of the year, we light our fires to celebrate the Sun. With this day comes new light.”

He turned and stepped toward one of the forward seats. Briar recognized the mayor and his wife sitting there, the light of the flames flickering across their faces.

“And with new light comes new life.” Gladius offered a short bow to the mayor’s wife. “The Sun has blessed your child, Lady Brightleaf. To give birth near the Celebration is among the best of omens.”

A smile curved the mare’s lips. “Thank you, Master Gladius.”

Gladius turned away to face the rest of the crowd. His voice boomed through the clearing, his cape fluttering in a breeze. “Yet it was not always so. Once we suffered without the watchful eye of the Sun, with no Celebration, and no blessings of Celestia to watch over us.”

Ironwood elbowed Briar in the side. “This is it!” he whispered. “He’s telling the story of the first Celebration.”

“Your favorite, huh?” she whispered back. He just grinned.

“As it is in the wild reaches of the Everfree, so too was it amongst ponykind,” Gladius intoned. “Where strength begat power, and the strong preyed upon the weak like beasts. It was in this time that She came.”

“She?” Briar whispered to Ironwood.

He shushed her. “Just listen!”

“Her cloak was fashioned of shadow, her coat a deathly black. To hear her laughter, it is said, was to hear the galloping of the windigo across the plains of the never-ending sky. She held no horn, no wings, and no magic—until one looked into her eyes.”

Gladius’s voice lowered further. “Even with her other features, she may well still have been called a pony, yet it was her eyes that set her apart. A piercing, otherworldly green, her two eyes shone with flame and rage and power.

“To meet her gaze was to invite death. It was said that her eyes could stare into a pony’s very soul, stripping them bare before her. Even the strongest stallion was putty in her hooves; the most powerful unicorn could do naught beneath the weight of that ancient, terrible stare. Simply by meeting her eyes, a pony forfeited his body to become no more than a puppet to her will.

“The Evil Eye, it was called, and it laid waste to the land. Wherever she stared from atop her tall tower, the crops wilted and died. Foals grew sickly and weak. The beasts gave birth to abominations that overtook the land. And so it came to be that she earned her name: the Green-Eyed Witch.”

Briar swallowed.

“The Witch demanded tribute from the villages that she controlled, and took great pleasure in forcing them to plead for aid when they became unable to muster enough crops for her. The country had become enslaved to her will, and a dark shroud fell across the land.”

A tinny voice piped up from the crowd: “Why didn’t anypony stop her?”

An uneasy chuckle ran through the audience. Gladius stopped in place before turning, his head snapping toward the source of the foal’s voice.

“Ponies tried,” he rasped. “Year after year, stallions and mares alike would take up arms as their villages proclaimed them champion. Warriors and sorcerers from all parts of the land would come to try their hoof at defeating the Witch, yet all fell to her piercing gaze.

“For the Witch, you see, could not be killed,” Gladius said, his scarred eye glinting in the light of the fire. “She was an Immortal—invulnerable, save for a single mark on her neck. A black spot, molded into the shape of a rose.”

Briar shrank back into her seat. She lifted a hoof and checked to make sure that her mane had covered her neck entirely.

Covered her neck. And a black spot in the shape of a rose.

The bonfire roared, casting heat and light all about the clearing, yet Briar shivered all the same.

“Time passed. The Sun rose and fell, and the darkness over the land grew. The villagers suffered beneath the Witch’s rule, yet no longer dared violate her will. All were afraid of her piercing gaze.

“And then one day, a traveller—a stallion—came to a particular village that had long been subject to the will of the Green-Eyed Witch. He had heard of the misfortunes of this land, and asked why nopony would stand against her. They told him thus: It is hopeless. It is insanity. She commands the soul of any pony dares look into her eyes.

“Yet when the traveller removed his hood, the villagers were shocked. The traveller’s eyes were grey, faded and covered in cataracts. He was blind, he told them, and could therefore survive the Witch’s piercing gaze.

“They laughed. Mad, they called him. Yet the traveller paid them no mind, and went away to sharpen his sword. As he worked the whetstone of the forge, he prayed to Celestia to lead him true. He prayed, asking for her to guide his hoof. And when he returned to the village, the image of a sunburst stood upon the blade of his sword.

“They laughed again, but the blind traveller found a foal to guide him to the Witch’s castle. As he stood outside the gates, a voice called down—what was his purpose?

“‘To kill the Witch,’ the blind traveller spoke, ‘and to free this land of her curse.’ A great and terrible laughter echoed through the castle. The Witch had heard his proclamation and found great mirth in it. Another traveller that dared attack her? He would be killed or enslaved like all the rest.

“Yet when she tried to gaze into his eyes, her Evil Eye failed her. The traveller’s blindness saved him, as he had predicted, and the Witch could not see his soul. She howled in fury and directed her guards to attack. Bent to her will as they were, none could refuse her call to battle.

“To a lesser pony,” Gladius said, turning again, “it may have seemed hopeless.” His eyes flashed across Briar and Ironwood’s sitting place, and Briar flinched back. “Yet the traveller’s prayers had rung true, and so it was that Celestia’s spirit came to fill his soul, guiding his every movement and enhancing his senses. With the smell of a fox, the hearing of an eagle, and a sense for the air itself, the traveller turned the tide in his favor.

“When she found all her guards dead or unconscious, the Witch was filled with an unholy fury. Taking a poison dagger from beneath her throne, she leapt at the traveller, bellowing a cry of rage. Yet Celestia’s spirit stayed with the traveller, guiding his hoof toward the mark of the rose. The traveller’s mark struck hard and true, and with his sword shining like the sun itself, pierced through the Witch’s neck.

“The Witch fell to the ground, green eyes dead and powerless. When the traveller returned to the village, he told them of his victory. The villagers tried to raise him up as their king or leader, but he refused. Celestia herself, he said, was responsible for the victory of that day.

“Without the Witch’s poisonous gaze upon it, the land prospered and grew. When the first good harvest came, the villagers gave thanks to Celestia, and named that day for her great Sun.

“Thus was the first year of the Summer Sun Celebration, when the land gave thanks for its freedom from the Green-Eyed Witch. When the crops grew strong and true, and our foals laughed with bright eyes and happy hearts.

“And so we celebrate even unto this day.”

The crowd erupted with applause and cheers. Even Ironwood leapt to his hooves, laughing and shouting with the rest.

Yet Briar shrank back into her seat, letting the shadows of those standing cover her. Her mane swept down to cover her neck. She closed her eyes. Her green eyes.

A black coat. The mark of a rose. Green, piercing eyes.

Could she do that? Rip into a pony’s soul and mold it to her will?

No. She wasn’t a monster. Her teeth chattered, and she realized that she was shivering. She would never do that.

Matron’s yellow gaze flickered in her mind’s eye.

But you tried, the flames whispered to her, sparks dancing through the air. You wanted it. That power.

“No,” Briar whispered. “No.”

A song had sprung up around the bonfire, ponies rising to their hooves and dancing to the rhythm. The words washed off of Briar’s ears like water on a rock as her eyes stared dully forward.

Beside her, Ironwood stopped applauding and stared down at her. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Didn’t you like the story?”

“I am the fire that burns within your soul.

“I am the Holy light that fills and makes you whole.

“I am the Flame within, that never dies.

“I am the sun that will ever arise.”

Briar grit her teeth. “It was a wonderful story,” she said. “Fantastic.”

“I told you it was his best one,” Ironwood said. Briar looked up when she felt a weight on her shoulder—Ironwood’s hoof. “Now come on! Gladius is leaving!”

“Leaving?” she asked. She was acutely aware that her gaze never budged above Ironwood’s neck.

“Power of the Sun we honor you this night.

“We leap across the fire to keep our spirits bright.

“Power of the Sun, fire in the night.

“We leave behind, that which blinds, to restore our sight.”

“Yeah! Don’t you want to ask him about your pin? About your parents?”

“I—”

“Come on!” Ironwood took a hold of her hoof and pulled her along. “If we don’t get to him soon, we’ll miss our chance!”

Briar protested in vain as Ironwood sped through and around the crowd, her own hooves powerless to stop him. All around her, the dancers spun in song as the bonfire burned higher and higher.

“I am the fire that clears away the old.

“I am the holy light that guides you to your soul.

“I am the Flame Of Love for which you yearn.

“I am the sun that will always return.”