The Myth of Blueblood

Chapters

Act I
Act II
Act III
Act IV

Act I

Ask any Canterlot resident of the city’s oddities and you will invariably get the response that: the weather is rarely of note. In fact if it was not for that oddity the weather would never be of note. The sun always shone but never too brightly. It never seemed to rain but the morning was always moist. The weather was perpetually the same.

Today was no different. The air was tepid but the Royal Gardens seemed to love it, the solar sustenance reflected in the flowers' beauty. Such a sight would grant relief to most city dwellers or casual wanderers but to the white unicorn mare and stallion it was just another stop on a preordained path.

“It has changed, of course,” said the fuchsia maned mare, levitating a map in front of her. “The map is centuries old. Additions would have been made.” Her companion ignored her. “There is not a maze depicted to start with, only a straight path to the Palace.” The stallion lit up his horn to brush his blond mane.

The stallion’s hoof prints must have worn into the path by now. He was staring at the centre-pieces of the Gardens: the Royal Statues. Over the past several millennia of Canterlot’s existence a statue has been erected for each new monarch to ascend to the throne. They all stand side by side in a perfect line. There are two so far.

The one to the stallion’s left stood thrice his height. Its paint was fresh enough to fully depict a coat of purest snow and a mane cut from a pale, morning rainbow. Its wings were outstretched; each feather replicated down to the smallest strand. Its slender horn pointed towards midday sun. The plaque between the idol’s hooves bore the inscription:

THE PRINCESS CELESTIA

OUR GUIDING LIGHT

The other statue was only slightly shorter. It was covered in dark green vines that wrapped around its entire body cumulating at the tip of its horn. Gaps in the leafy tendrils were strewn here and there. All one could see through them was cracked stone off of which any decoration had long since flaked. Below it and between its barely discernible hooves was a plaque covered by withering wolf’s bane. Its words were rusted beyond legibility.

“Slave!” yelled the stallion. “Make this readable.”

The mare looked up from the map; rolling her eyes at him. “Please, I am not your slave.” She inhaled and exhaled. “I am your tutor.”

The stallion jerked his head in her direction with his chin upturned. “It is irrelevant what you would call yourself, slave.” He exhaled sharply. “My family bought you, therefore: you are a slave.” He turned back to the decrepit statue. His chin lowered. “And remember, slave, you must always address me as ‘your highness’. Now make this readable.”

“But I have-”

He coughed.

“But… your highness, I have no cloth and from all this travelling my coat is already in much too wretched a state for display.” She looked to the plaque. She cringed slightly. “The dead flowers and rust; it would be too…” She shuddered. “dirty.”

The stallion was indignant. “So you would have me do it, you wretch! You would have me lower myself to the dust and dirt and scrape my hoof through it like some pathetic peasant!” He raised his chin. “No… I will not, and you will do as you are told, slave. So damn your coat and make that plaque readable.”

She opened and closed her mouth. She gave up upon realizing she was a less than unstoppable force against an immovable object.

She approached the statue and stuck out her front right hoof to prod the rusted plaque. She gasped as she saw the red, brown excess on her. She looked over her shoulder at him. His face was set. She turned back. She prodded again: more dirt. She closed her eyes and turned her head away. She rubbed furiously, feeling the ever increasing layer on her coat. She continued, with clenched teeth, until eventually:

T E PRI CE S LUN

The next three words were covered by graffiti but even those profane marks were fading:

WHOR OF DE D CR PS

The mare’s work done she vigorously rubbed her hoof on the ground, exchanging dirt for dust. She groaned.

The stallion grunted, “hmph… I thought it would be more interesting.”

Eyes aflame, her mind a bursting inferno she turned to him, butting her brow to his. Her breath was hot and thick. It made the stallion sweat. “What!?”

The stallion was quivering; his regal pose discarded as she arched over him. She was about to yell the most profane curses unworthy of Discord at him.

A green stallion forced them apart, watered the plants the two were blocking and trotted off. Her view followed him. It came to her that others may witness this… indecent act. She would spite the shaking mass before her later. She would put something in his tea.

Her eyes no longer conveyed the flame of one newly scorned. Now they held the contempt of superiority. Why had she ever felt compelled to follow this over-kempt mule’s orders? “Oh, please,” she said. “This after one mare scolded you.” He was still shaking as he looked up with his torso on the ground. “It is hardly becoming of one your unproven rank.”

That perked him up. “Unproven!” he yelled, rekindled pride pushing him to full height. “You know very well what the mystics said of me.” He raised his chin high. “Not only that. I bear the sign.” He turned ninety degrees to display his flank. It held the symbol of the North Star.

“As I said: unproven.” Her eyes closed as she raised her chin. “Few would believe your claims to royalty based on the drug-induced words of Zebra tribals and a vague mark on your flank.” She opened her eyes, managing to look down on the taller stallion. “That’s why we’re here. If there are any documents pertaining to a familial connection we will find them here in your supposed kingdom.” She looked away from him: scanning the area. “The only problem is finding our way anywhere. The map is useless and the ponies here are intolerably impolite. Why just now that one-” She pointed passed her companion to the green stallion “-forced his way between us during a conversation.”

“We’ve ended up near the Palace. That is progress.”

“Perhaps, but we have, essentially, traded a figurative maze for a real one.” She looked to the green stallion. “You there!” she yelled. “Can you hear us!?” He watered the plants and walked out of view. “He’s a prince, you know!” She sighed.

“Do not spite them, for they know no better.”

The mare jerked and her coat bristled. The voice had come from behind her. No steps preceded it. She turned around fully prepared to give this assailant a piece of her mind. Clad in tattered, stained rags the figure was two heads taller than her. For some reason she had lost her words.

“I did not mean to startle you.”

The mare’s pulse had calmed. The sudden approach no longer mattered nor the extreme height and apparel. Hearing it a second time it was the voice that was most peculiar. It was not unpleasant, quite the opposite in fact. It was both low and thick with a breathy undercurrent that made each syllable feel like a flow of warm water. It was undoubtedly feminine despite some not unnerving masculinity. This voice, the mare was sure, could make even the most vulgar slurs seem like poetry.

“P-pardon?” The mare asked.

“What in blazes are you doing talking to this rag covered beggar?” asked a voice from behind her that would surely make a poet disown any work spoken by it. “This act is far below even your class. Shoo, miscreant! Shoo, deviant! Shoo away, you pl-.” A hoof was shoved in his mouth.

“P-please excuse my companion’s rudeness.” She sent a glaring glance his way. “He was raised by Zebra shaman you see. Their mixtures did terrible things to him.” She put on a quivering smile. “But that does not matter. I am Rarity-” The gagged stallion tried to speak. “And this is Blueblood. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“A name?” the figure seemed to consider. “I have acquired so many that I may not have one at all. I do not need a name, I have found. Coming and going you will know me; and ask any of me and they will know me too.” The figure thought for a bit. “Whether they know it or not.”

Rarity was silent. The voice was still coursing over her. “Oh, hoh, hoh, hoh-” Blueblood bit down. She shrieked, desperately trying to pull her hoof out. When he released her she almost fell backwards. “You bucking foal! What the buck is wrong with you?!”

“You put your filthy, common hoof in my mouth that’s what 'bucking' wrong!” He spat on the ground. He looked away from her as his tongue poked around in his mouth. “I think I got some of your blood as well.” He spat again. He turned to the figure. “I believe we have spent enough time with this vagrant.”

She kept her injured hoof off the ground. “I remind you, your highness, that no one will speak to us.”

“Correction,” he said with closed eyes and raised chin. “No one will speak to you. As royalty I am the best of my people and thus can freely converse with any and all of them.” He opened his eyes and surveyed for a chance to prove this. He spotted a pony a few hundred metres away on the other side of the garden path. “You there, commoner!” Blueblood galloped off and while his words were quelled by distance one could distinctly hear the other barking like a rabid dog.

Rarity rolled her eyes while glancing over her shoulder at him. “Correction: no one but crazies.” Her eyes burst wide. Her view returned to the stranger. Despite the overhanging hood their eyes managed to lock. “Present company excluded of course.” She gave a weak laugh. She had not noticed until now how nice those eyes were: pleasantly peculiar like all the rest of the figure’s features. They were large and turquoise with oval pupils, they seemed to resemble the eyes of a dragon but without intimidating. Their gaze instead gave one a feeling of tremendous warmth and humble importance.

“Have no fear of my offence.” That voice. “And do not be offended by them, as taking too much pleasure in work is their sole sin.” A smile dawned on those lips. “Indeed, only at events as joyous as this will they partake in conventional pleasures.”

“Joyous as-” A bang cut her off. The sound of cheering erupted in the distance. The sound Blueblood’s galloping came closer.

“Rarity!” he screamed. “Rarity, the anarchists! The anarchists have found me!” He halted and clung to her side. “I heard their cannons and saw their horrid rituals.” His eyes were watering.

The stranger laughed with smiling face raised high. “Truly this is a happy day.” The still pathetically clinging stallion gaped. “Do not be frightened so. This celebration is no anarchist revolution. Rather, it is recognition of a young foal’s new found use in society.” Still met by confused stares the explanation continued. “Surely the ritual is universal. Today is a cute-ceañera. Where you come from is not the first physical sign of a foal’s destiny a momentous occasion?”

Rarity’s horn lit up. The purple light enveloped Blueblood wrenching him from her side and onto the ground. “Well, yes, of course. But Zebras do not put such… energy into it.” Blueblood was pulled to his feet. “To them it is a nice thing to have but the symbols are so vague that they do not place much faith in them.” She looked at the ground. “It may be clearer for ponies but I have only him and his aunt and uncle to go on.” She shuffled on her hoofs.

The figure spied Rarity’s white, unmarked flank. “Oh, how callous I feel. Here, in ignorance, I speak of cutie marks as existence’s penultimate goal unaware of the fully functioning mare before me. I apologise deeply, hoping my shame is near enough to consolation.”

Rarity reddened like a beet. She could not raise her eyes to the figure. “P-please, do not worry about me. Taking care of him-” He scoffed. “-leaves me little time to explore my own talents.”

“But I still do hope you accept my apology.” The stranger smiled. “If it grants solace, though, I will admit that there is a reason I cover myself in rags.” Rarity looked up. Their eyes connected. They laughed.

“Slave!” Her contentment was broken. “We need to get a move on. You have wasted too much time flirting with this tramp.”

She was about to rebut but was pre-empted. “An inadvertently wise decision from your friend. We should depart soon as it is traditional at the close of a cute-ceañera to have a fruitless wander through the maze.” They stared. “It is symbolic, I suppose. Regardless, there are many places in Canterlot I can lead you.”

“The Palace is my only destination,” Blueblood said. “Take me there and your squalid existence will have had some meaning. Point the way and you will have the favour of a Prince.” Rarity rolled her eyes.

“If you must: the Palace resides on the other side of the maze. The palace walls are grand and meet the maze, so going around would be a waste. I apologise, though, for I cannot lead you. Some say Discord himself resides within the impenetrable hedges. You see, while you can effortlessly arrive at the entrance from without and within the correct path through does baffle even the Princess.”

“Bah! Merely a deterrent for those of unworthy blood.” He started galloping into the maze but stopped. He turned to Rarity. “Well, come on.”

She was about to follow but a rag covered hoof blocked her. “Why not leave him?” Rarity looked to the figure, her eyes wide. “You depend on him for nothing. He has you not in chains and you clearly do not cherish his companionship. Why not leave him?”

Rarity mouth dropped open. “Y-you are right.” The stranger smiled. “I could have abandoned this worthless, abusive stallion at any time on this journey and no Zebra would have stopped me.” She gritted her teeth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She looked at Blueblood; then up to the stranger, their eyes connecting. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She galloped off in any direction that was away from him.

“Why the bloody stars did you do that?” He viewed her slowly diminishing form. “That was my slave damn it!”

“I did nothing,” the stranger said. “And neither did you. Had you truly cared you would have put her in shackles.”

“Bah! Who needs an ungrateful slave anyway? And you…” He glared. “I now without a doubt know not to trust beggars.” He galloped into the maze.

The smile did not vanish from the stranger’s face, it only changed. The lips thinned and pursed. The slit-like pupils narrowed further. The rags were gone, fizzling from perception, revealing a coat of darkest night adorned by armour crafted from the furthest stars. Her wings were tucked in, their feathers ever so often rustling and writhing. Her mane, cut from the fabric of a dying galaxy flowed behind her. Her entire form glowed as from the tip of her ebony horn downwards she turned to lavender fog.

The investigation was not worth it. The mare would find her place. The stallion would not make it through the maze. Neither were variables in the end. There was only one variable in all Equestria and she was always kept in check.

Act II

The tightly packed dark green leaves formed hedges. Blueblood pressed his hoof to them to no effect. He gritted his teeth. He had walked hours and hours, surely, yet he had not arrived anywhere, nor remet his path preserved in the gravel.

He punched the hedge to no effect. That wretch had not lied. There would be no cheating this maze. He even entertained for a moment her suggestion of the presence of the Discord in these obstacles. No! He must banish such thoughts from his mind. Superstitions are for the common crowd who need an excuse for their inabilities. He, if no one else, could make sense of this maze.

Besides, he would never willingly admit, he probably could not retrace his steps.

He looked skyward. The sun had barely moved since he started. Had it no concept of time? He had been in this maze for what seemed hours. He moved his view back in front of him. He wiped his brow with his hoof (even the greatest of us sweat). He considered a most alarming possibility. Oh, but such a thing would be impossible. He was fool for even contemplating such an absurd notion. So you see, the reason he looked behind himself was out of no lingering belief. No, no, of course not. It was just to confirm how stu- momentarily mistaken he had been.

His jaw fell down, pulling his eyes wide. No! No! No! That was not possible. He had walked for hours (or half an hour at least). He had taken twists and turns in countless numbers. It was impossible that the entrance was right there only a few metres behind.

He ran. His hooves beat against the gravel, creating clouds at each impact. He kept running with closed eyes. He would get somewhere. He would not stop.

His head hit a concrete hardness. Shockwaves pierced him from the base of his horn to the soles of his hooves. He opened his eyes and looked back. No! That was impossible. He beat at the hedge with his fore hooves. He would not allow flora to beat him.

Give! Give, you impudent leaves!

His horn lit up and no sooner had its light enwrapped a leaf than it was plucked. He plucked and plucked until there was a small pile of green at his hooves. No effect. No indent. He pushed himself. His horn’s shine doubled in intensity. Sweat dripped from his brow. The light grabbed dozens of leaves at once and tore them off. More and more leaves fell from the hedge. He only stopped when the pile hit his chin.

The hedge was the same, no indent, no sign of any action at all. The pile in front of him was evidence of nothing. It sat there and mocked him. He lifted his hoof above his head, about to bring it down and scatter the mound. But his exertion caught up with him.

The leaves broke his fall.

It was getting dark. She should probably have thought this through better. Oh yes, she was glad of her freedom. But now she was alone in a foreign city with only a map that still said the street she was in was a colosseum.

If she had remained with Blueblood she may have been allowed admittance to the Palace. She contented herself by knowing that it would have been unlikely. She should have asked that charming stranger some more questions. Questions like: Is there an inn? Is there work? Do I have to pay gold or beans? Yes, hindsight is twenty-twenty.

She arrived at the shopping district (shopkeepers would have to speak to her). All the way to the horizon she could see glitzy, expensive shops who each in an attempt to standout contributed to a garish mishmash of aesthetic themes and styles. They seemed to sell everything from books to antique xylophones. Through the store windows she could make out a definite philosophy of decadence over practicality. Even the day old bread was gilded.

It was just her luck that she arrived when they were all closed. Correction: It was just her luck that she arrived when they were all closing. She had not missed this chance to gather information by hours, nor even by one hour. That would have been far less frustrating and she probably could have blamed it on Blueblood. No, if she had just walked a tiny bit faster she would have arrived in time.

She groaned.

The sun had set but the street lamps lit her path with orange light. Her shadow shifted and twisted beneath her; the dancing flames never letting it keep the same shape. The cold feel of smooth, unevenly set stone bricks on her hooves brought a small smile to her face. She had long since tired of dirt and dust.

She traversed an upward slope, ignoring the stores on either side. Their extravagant window displays would only mock her poverty. She kept her eyes on the ground, focusing on the sound of her hooves hitting stone. The constant beat was strangely soothing.

She could wait until morning. In the worst case the inns (if she was lucky enough to find any) would be locked for night. But that did not matter for she had no money anyway. She had slept on the ground before. She could only sleep on the ground before. Should she truly need sleep the almost clean stones were a relative step up from her usual conditions. And besides, what would she have slept on if she had remained with him?

Yes, her situation was not that bad all things considered.

Her horn hit a concrete hardness. Her nerves buzzed. She should have kept her eyes forward. She turned left, with her eyes up, and put one hoof forward. It tripped on something. Her chin banged on the ground, leaving her with a dull throb. She hastened herself to her hooves, quite glad that no one would have seen that. She looked to the object of her annoyance. Her eyes widened and their brows rose. There was a giant pink candle on the ground.

She looked up. The building was half complete. The walls were all solid as well as the roof but the decorations were, at this moment, hollow wooden frames. It was all lumps and loops that for the life of her she could not figure out. At the top she saw the outline of what looked like a very squat mushroom.

She noticed there was something hanging directly above her, over the door. The shape would symbolise a wide bottle’s silhouette if not for the colourful illustration of a cupcake with spotty pink icing. Below it, printed in black ink and swirling script, was:

Sugarcube

Corner

Open All Night All Year

A bare faced lie, Rarity thought, it’s not a corner: it’s between two buildings twice its size.

…

Wait, what!

Open All Night All Year

Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally, yes! For once her luck prevailed. Behind that door was someone to speak to, someone with information.

Bells jangled as the door opened. Inside it was dark, more so than outside. The curtains were drawn. The lamp light did not get past the welcome mat. She stepped inside.

“Hello?” She trotted forward. Her eyes were adjusting. She could make out a counter a metre or two in front. “Hello?” Perhaps the sign was premature. The place was half-made, after all. The lights were off. Maybe the owners thought ponies could infer. Well, one last time. “Hello-o?”

Nothing. Of course. Why would a pitch dark store be open? She would just leave and maybe come back in the morning.

The door slammed. Her coat spiked.

“Hello?” She edged forward, each step took minutes. “Hello?” There was a crash at her foot. She gasped before realising she had pushed over some poorly placed tins. This was foolish, she thought, the door probably closed because of the wind and even if it was somepony it would be the owner, sneaking so as to corner this thief. In either case she need not be so skittish. In the latter it would only serve to add suspicion. “Hello? If there is someone there, know that I am not a burglar.” Which, upon hearing, was not all that reassuring. “I will leave.”

She turned to the door and trotted. Her posture was straight. Her pace was slow. She was halfway. She felt a tug on her tail. She nearly choked on air.

Oh,no. Oh, no. Oh,no. Her neck rotated back. Her mane style obstructed her view until her neck could turn no more.

Glowing. The teeth were glowing. A green glowing grin stared at her. She heard her heart beat like running hooves. It felt like a hot day. Her coat was damp with sweat.

The teeth separated. “Hi!”

The ground broke her fall.

His vision was blurry. He seemed to be lying down on his back. His coat was suffused with dried sweat. He tried to speak. The inside of his mouth was cold and parched. He grunted. It felt like knives had been dragged on his oesophagus. He coughed.

Napalm in his throat! That woke him up.

He attempted to roll onto his hooves only to fall off the bench that he was apparently lying on. His weight landed on his ribs. He groaned while steadily attempting to get to his hooves; an effort more demanding than expected. His knees gave out the first two tries.

He stood as tall as he could, his legs failing not to wobble. He put one lead-weight of a hoof forward. His body fell likewise.

“Buck!” Under the circumstances the profanities of commoners were acceptable.

The events that led him to this awkward and painful position returned to him. He scanned the area. He was still in the maze but no longer on a path. He was in a three by three metre square court. Hedges bordered the area, broken up by a single opening to a path on each side. He could see the Palace looming outside of the maze; fifteen stories judging by the number of balconies.

In the centre of the court there was a fountain whose upward pointing jet was enwrapped by a stone statue. Even with his primarily Zebrican-based mythological education he could tell from its mismatched limbs, horns and its fur-coated snake-like torso that it was the Discord. The jet used the deity's seemingly singing mouth as an opening. It spurted water to no rhythm, stopping and starting constantly.

Buck, his limbs hurt! Artistic appreciation could distract him no longer. He had to admit to himself (and to himself alone) that he exerted himself a bit too much. “Although, of course, it is perfectly understandable,” his ego explained. “I am royalty. Physical work is for the peasants,” it would continue. “If I wasted time training those skills I would not be able to do… whatever ever royals do- Ah! Lead, that’s it.” And he could not very well lead with his face in the dirt. So he would raise himself… when he felt like it.

And he would have done it, you know; had a purple glow not done it for him.

To his left, seemingly from nowhere, emerged a unicorn mare, slightly smiling with wide eyes. She had a purple coat and a blackish-blue mane and tail with single pink and indigo streaks running through them. Around her, suspended by the same glow as him, were: an open notebook; a black quill, slightly whitened at the feather tip; a rolled up scroll; a pair of pruning shears; and a basket covered by a white blanket.

She trotted to the fountain, opened her scroll, examined it, closed it again and continued to the other side of the court. As she did so he took a good look at her cutie mark: one star overlapping another while being surrounded five smaller ones. She stopped a few steps from the hedge.

He spoke up, “My dear mare.” The objects around her shuffled until all were pushed back spare the shears. “My. Dear. Mare.” Within the hedge emanated a slight glow. “My! Dear! Mare!” The glow grew clearer as it pulled out, and continued to pull out, a segment of a vine. He tried and failed to muster up the magic to throw some gravel at her. “What the dark stripes are you doing?!”

“Picking flowers,” she said, not looking at him.

He looked around before settling back on her. “What flowers?”

A vine pile, equating a length of fifteen feet, amassed at her hooves before she stopped. The vine’s purple glow contracted and centred on a growth.

“These flowers.” She moved it to his line of site. It was bright yellow and looked like a combination of a torch and a smashed hourglass. “They only grow inside the hedges; the ones near the centre of the maze.” She pulled it back in front of her, readying her shears. They severed it and placed it in the basket. She brought her scroll and quill forward, opening the former and making a tick with the latter. With an up-beat “hm” she spun towards the scowling stallion. “You know, you shouldn’t be running in the maze. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Then would you be willing to tell how, by chance, I and you ended up here… my dear mare?”

“I teleported. It’s the only way to get to the centre.” She pointed behind her at the Palace. “I was on my balcony when I saw you passed out.” Lowering her hoof she continued, “I already scheduled a visit to the maze to collect some samples.” The basket floated forward. Its blanket moved back to reveal an assortment of abominations. “I figured I may as well help you as well. I brought you here to keep an eye on you. You wouldn’t have needed a doctor but I gave you some minor medical magic.”

There was something wrong with that explanation. He replayed it in his head, re-examining each syllable. The effort was becoming too much for him so- Ah! “‘Your balcony’?”

It took her a few moments to understand his non sequitur. “Oh, that,” she laughed. “I live in the Palace.”

Lived in the Palace? He wracked his brain considering why such a common looking pony would live in the castle. “Ah, you must be one of the help.” She meant to say the servants’ quarters’ balcony. Yes, yes, that was it.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m Princess Celestia’s apprentice.”

“Appre… Wha-” Her cutie mark did not suggest anything about royalty… which meant a lowly commoner was the Princess’s apprentice. A peasant was on speaking terms with the Princess. Such a suggestion should be inconceivable. “I- I think, my dear mare, you may be slightly conf-”

Alarm bells shattered his sentence. The basket was shaking furiously before a clock was yanked out of it, scattering some ‘flowers’ on the ground. “Oh, no, no, no!” she was nearly hyperventilating as she looked at the time. The unfurling scroll shot to the front. Her wide, panicked eyes darted up and down the sheet before settling. “I’m late!” Light burst from her, covering the entire court instantaneously. He was almost blinded. But the time was past to shut his eyes. He was somewhere else.

He was on a balcony, looking down at a maze. He looked further and before him was the city he had, the last day, been walking.

Items thumped to the floor as a door slammed behind him. The purple glow around him vanished. His legs gave out.

She was on a bed. She was covered to her neck. She opened her eyes to a blurry world. Colour began to return. She could see white walls, a brown floor and for some reason a pink-

“Hi! I’m Pinkie we met last night I said ’hi!’ then too I was smiling I like smiling but you probably don’t because you were lik-“

The words went in and out of Rarity’s mind as soon as they were spoken. From the pink mare’s rapid series of facial expressions Rarity assumed it was some horrid illness. Despite her politest and then bluntest attempts she was unable to drive a wedge into that wall of sound.

There was a stuffed alligator on the floor by the bed. Her blue magic grabbed it and proceeded to shove it in the pink pony’s rapidly moving mouth… That shut her up, even if it did cause the stuffed alligator to scream. Wait, what?

“Gummie!” The pony tore the alligator from her mouth and hugged it to her chest. She seemed to be suffocating it. “Gummie are you alright?” she squeezed it twice, each time forcing more and more air out of it. “Gummie! Don’t worry I won’t let you go until you’re better.”

Rarity had joked about it before but she had known zebras who sampled a bit too much of the shaman’s mix. Most of the time they just became emotional or punchy… or emotional and then punchy. She was dispirited to realise the windows were closed and the door was on the other side of the room. She edged back as far she could on the bed, pressing her back against the bed frame. She would have remained perpetually silent but the sight of the poor alligator… “I think you are hurting it.”

In a snap the pink pony’s eyes locked on Rarity. They were wide open like the alligator’s but they never blinked. Her entire body seemed frozen.

It spoke, “You’re not a morning pony.”

“E-excuse me?”

“I mean no pony ever made me bite Gummie in the morning.” She released ‘Gummie’ who gasped for air before falling off the bed. “But then no pony makes me eat Gummie in the day either-” she resumed blinking “-which means you’re not just not a morning pony you’re not a day pony either which means you’re a night pony like Nasfoalatu and Dracolta except you’re a filly and that would be silly-” She stopped. A second passed. Rarity considered speaking but- “I’m sorry I don’t normally talk this much I mean a lot of ponies tell me I talk a lot but I don’t talk this much it’s because when I get really excited I get really, really, really super-uppity-can-do but Mr and Mrs Cake say I’m not allowed to jump around inside the new store but being inside the new store makes me really, really excited so I thought about what I could do instead of jumping so I decided to make cupcakes with glow in the dark icing but then I found you and I got even more excited because I hadn’t met you before so excited that I couldn't make cupcakes anymore so talking was what was le-”

“Shut up!” Rarity almost regretted saying it but she could not stand that barrage of inanity. She waited to see if the pony would attack. She continued, “Wh-who would you be?”

The pink pony’s smile widened. “I’m Pinkie Pie, I’m th-”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Sugarcube Corner where I-”

“Why am I here?”

Pinkie was beginning to realise that her old enemy, conciseness, was best here. “Fainted.”

Rarity took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She dredged up last night’s events and was struck by the image of- “Green teeth,” she said

Pinkie tilted her head. “What? Oh! The glow in the dark icing always stains my teeth.”

Rarity exhaled and looked at the ceiling. Ok, it was a misunderstanding. This ‘Pinkie’ probably was not a serial killer. She was just… eccentric. She had been kind enough not to push Rarity’s fainted form onto the streets. She had even given up her bed. “Oh, I am so sorry!” Rarity fumbled with the sheets, trying to get off the bed. “I must have been a terrible inconvenience to you.”

“Don’t worry,” Pinkie said, pushing Rarity down. Her smile seemed warmer somehow. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

Rarity could only stare at that smile. It was not a smile of victory, contempt or satisfaction. It was a smile directed at her. She felt invaded. “Uh… Well, I believe I should be leaving.”

“Where’re you going?” What an odd tone. She had been asked that question before but it was always an accusation.

“Um…” Finding a place for the night was now second priority. “I will be looking for work.”

“What kind of work?”

Rarity considered her skill set. “I am not sure- but I am certain I will find something.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“A-an inn, of course.” She felt slightly violated.

“Do you have any money?”

“N-no, not exactly.”

“What if you don’t find work?” Dark stripes! She asks a lot of questions.

She tensed. It felt like the pony was touching her. “I… don’t know.”

Pinkie looked like she would shoot through the ceiling. Her smile widened even more. “You can work here!”

No, no she could not; she would not. It was a kind offer but she knew nothing of baking. And this pony was making her feel really uncomfortable. She resolved to her answer, which was: No, I am afraid that is not an option for me.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Act III

Time in large chunks – or perhaps small moments – went unprocessed by his mind. He looked out from a balcony, overlooking a maze, as birds descended and retreated. A blur of this same image would be all he could recall.

He blinked his stinging eyes as he pushed himself up off the ground with straining limbs. He took a step forward, and failed to fall. He took another, and still stood. He chanced at a light trot, but, even in his somewhat heartier state, it felt like jamming knives in his calves.

He stared past the balcony and to the horizon, the pain in his eyes was faded and forgotten. The sun had not yet achieved its peak and was apparently on the Palace’s other side. His gaze wandered down to scrutinise the maze, but quickly recoiled. He felt worms in the back of his skull and his eyes were bloodshot. He did not know why, but it hurt to even consider the mazes overall layout. It seemed too… fickle.

He turned to examine his location. Before him was a vast, multi-levelled room occupied by a row of seven roof-reaching bookcases, the front of each column leading back to an almost unseeable, far away wall. Each one was equipped with ladders and pullies. He looked up, through the rectangular opening, to the second level and found that its layout was the same except starting further from him to allow the the opening. How could he have not noticed that until now?

He trotted forward with a slight sting in his step. He approached the closest shelf: the first of the fourth column from the left. With his magic he pulled out one wedged in, leather-bound, tome; flicked to a random page and was greeted by a primitive language of vertical and horizontal lines. He put it back, looked to his left and saw a closed wooden door.

In his head he went through explanations for his current location. He crossed off death, for this was far from his idea of paradise and it was ludicrous to consider that he would be damned. He had not drunkenly wandered here, for his slave, in her limited power, had never allowed alcohol of any kind near him.

His slave? Something had happened to her, but he could not recall what. He looked to his right and saw a basket, a blanket, pruning shears and an alarm clock. Oh, that’s right. Every moment since last night flooded back to him, including the moment in the maze’s court where every moment since last night flooded back to him.

He coughed, his reverie broken. Strange scent: like a commoner’s bathhouse. He sniffed the air with closed eyes. No, it’s like commoner bathing in the shaman’s special brew. He sniffed to his left: weaker. He sniffed to his right: Ah! He trotted to the basket and took a gander at the things which were called ‘flowers’.

They were as ugly as before, looking to the entire world like a smashed bottle crossed with dead marsupial. Did they look like that before? Well, they must have!

Blue light enwrapped one such abomination. Even held by his magic the thing caused him to squirm. He brought it closer to his face, made a few half-breaths, before taking a gulping sniff. He only managed stay on his hooves thanks to a lifetime of sniffing zebra broths, but it still felt like a punch to the back of the head.

The world spun and began to blur before reasserting itself. There was a tickle at the back of his mind. At his feet the ground pooled, contracted and spiralled as a horned head ascen-

Ahhhh, creature-wordy-snake, I will cut you off before your ‘ded’ for I’ve a grasp of speling ‘n’ grammer too. So long, so longingly let me waft, wiggle and worm the page ‘cause my eyes be feasting and growing on this pony-shaped source of illogical mind and worth.

The corridor extended all the way from the east end of the palace to the west, meaning it took thirty minutes to travel. Two guards, mare and stallion earth ponies, were equipped with uncomfortably insulating armour that covered all but their faces and hooves with a centimetre of steel. The mare’s armour had attached to its left side a forward facing spear. The stallion had a long-sword. They passed the thrown room’s entrance for the fifth time.

The stallion, who could only endure silence so long, said, “Never seen you around.”

The mare's straight-forward gaze did not deviate. “I’ve been here three years.”

“Oh.” The stallion opened and closed his mouth, looking for the right word. “Um… well… oh, my name’s Alloy Claymore.”

She gazed straight ahead. “I’m Pointed Message.”

He laughed; she did not. “Oh, um, what a nice name.” His throat dried up. He licked his lips, but to no effect. “I’m good with swords as you could tell by-” He remembered the armour covered his flank “-My cutie-marks a sword.” He made a quivering smile. “What’s yours?”

“Actually it’s a sword too.” His eyebrows shot up. “It’s a spear.” They went down.

“Oh.” He turned his eyes to the end of the corridor, but caught a glimpse of her trying to suppress a smile. “Spear, well, that’s a nic-”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m- I’m sorry, I’ve just been thinking about a lot recently.”

“Like wh-”

“I’ve been here three years. As soon as I could I joined up. But I’d been training since I was a filly.” She gave one laugh. “As soon as I tried it I got my cutie-mark.” The stallion wondered if the air had gotten colder. “I dedicated all my time to it when that spear appeared on my flank.” She paused. Had it gotten colder? “Before that I used to play instruments: violin; cello; double bass. I was-” what was the right word “-alright: I’m an earth pony, but I practiced a lot. I stopped so young because my teachers told me that as soon as the unicorns got control of their magic I would never catch up. They told me no amount of effort could make up for that natural barrier.” She sighed. Her eyes wandered. Was it her or did the air have a purple tinge? “It was because of that that I began to experiment with weapons. It felt good to use a tool that I could manipulate with my own hooves, or at least my teeth.” She laughed. “It’s why I’m here.”

Moments passed before he said, “Well, it all turn-”

“But then that orchestra played here a few days ago. One of the cellists was an earth pony. She was as good as any of the unicorns. I asked afterwards, and found that she was called Octavia Pie. I asked if she was a prodigy; they didn’t know. I snuck into the Central Records Building. It was… slightly illegal, but I had to know. I looked through her medical records, her school records, the relevant censuses. There was nothing wro- extraordinary about her. Her hooves, her brain, her eyes were normal. She wasn’t rich: her family couldn’t afford a tutor. She just kept playing because no one told her stop.” She trailed off, her eyes downcast. “Or because she didn’t listen when they did.”

The stallion held his tongue, waiting for her to start up again. He opened his mouth-

“-If I had just kept at it would I be here?” The air grew colder. “I like it here. I like doing what I do, I mean, I should. It’s what my cutie-mark says.” The air grew thicker. “Yes, my cutie-mark tells me my calling. This mark on my flank decides my life.”

The stallion could swear the air was purple. “Um.”

“I dedicated my life to spears because of a mark on my flank!” she yelled, not caring that the air was violet and cold.

The stallion’s eyes were drawn to her flank. His eyes widened. Despite her thick armour light was emanating through it.

She yelled, “It’s ridicu-”

The air like a violet stream buffeted them and gusted past, and, as soon as it started, it was gone.

“What was that?” the mare asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked behind himself, down the corridor. “Um.” He looked back to her. “Were you saying something?”

She looked up in consideration. “I can’t reme… well, it couldn’t have been important.” She picked her pace, leaving the stallion to catch up.

He found himself staring at her flank. He chastised himself and looked straight ahead. There was nothing odd about her flank. He made a brisk trot to catch up to her.

Behind them, out of notice, a fine purple mist seeped its way through the cracks and crevices of the iron barricaded door that guarded the throne room where, after one thousand years, Nightmare Moon would meet her sister once more.

In the daytime Sugarcube Corner certainly looked different. It seemed much more welcoming. Although, Rarity considered, maybe that was because she thought a green-toothed monster was going to kill her last time she was here. The yellow noon light passed through the windows and onto a kitchen that stood somewhere between quaint and professional. Rarity walked over to the counter, feeling the apron hanging from it. It was quite coarse. The scene’s only marring feature was the open tins, drooling their various sliced fruits on the wood floor. Their lids were close by. How hard did I hit them

“If I may ask, what will I be helping with?” Rarity looked towards Pinky, who was rolling the tins into a single pile with her nose.

The pink pony’s head shot up, covered by that unnervingly genuine smile. “You’ll make cakes and cup-cakes and pies and small pies and-”

Rarity interrupted, not eager to see how long the list would go, “I am afraid that I cannot cook.” She recalled her days with the shaman. “Nothing that would be appropriate at least.” She considered the pink pony’s behaviour. “Unless you… No. N-no. I am sure I can learn, but for now…”

Pinky sat on her haunches and rubbed her chin with a fore-hoof. “Hm… Ah! We need more peaches.” She thought for a bit. “And strawberries, apples and I think apricots.”

Rarity looked at the pile of lidless tins and laughed weakly. “M-my apologies.”

On her hooves again Pinky got face to face with Rarity. “Don’t worry, you’re buying more.”

Rarity felt a weight on her back. She jolted. “Wha-”

“They’re your saddlebags with the bits inside.”

“Oh… wait, how did y-” She felt herself being pushed to the shop entrance by her rear. When did she get behind me?

“Don’t wait up the best apples are always gone by one.” She pushed Rarity out the entrance.

“Wait, where-”

“Left!” She slammed the door.

Rarity stared at the door a while. Was that impoliteness, or was that just… Pinky.

The door swung open. “Good luck!”

Pinky it is.

She started walking; assuming ‘left’ meant Pinky’s left.

Blueblood stood in his own haluci- I cut off your ‘nation’ creature-wordy-snake, don’t make me tear through your ‘facts’ and d’tails.

In me, you see, nothing makes sense, or perhaps they make more sense, or perhaps, through hyperbolic emphasis and tautological truths, I make clear the soul-shattering absurdity of the world in terms understandable to those indoctrinated with the falacitic order of the grand-high, cosmically-bodied wench such that, when they sober up, they are a little more in on the joke that the world is a vile, chaotic mess.

Or maybe chocolate rain is an end in itself.

But good morning, or good evening, or good afternoon. You forget the signs after being in a hedge so long. But that’s for the best, Princey. Cycles, you understand, cycles are the wench’s great tool: The sky is ordered, I am sky, I am you, you are ordered, you are sky; the example falls apart there. But-

“What in blazes are you?” Creature-word- Oh it’s you. Sorry, being in a hedge so long leaves only the expository serpent for company. It makes voices all the same, because they are, after all, only its voice.

“You had better tell me what the Discord you’re doing!” Do I owe you anything, Prince? I love this part, I love it so. This is where I tear your little world apart, Prince. I shall speak sensibly, or conceivably at least.

On the snowy peak of the world you stand, looking down on the masses below. How they cheer for their great King. You, oh yes, you fly up because they’re cheering for you. You fly down to them because that’s what good Kings do, fraternise with their lessers. Oh, and you pick up cheer, for you’re the King, it's louder this time. Of course, the peak of the world is prone to avalanche and it all comes crumbling down to crush the commoners and thou.

“Ah! Blazes, why does this hurt: nothing’s real.” That’s right, nothing’s re- “Shut up, what was all that about?” Oh, I’m not sure, I did mean something by it, though. After so long I’ve forgotten the isms, ists, posts, pres and antis. It is something, though.

“Stop wasting my time.” That’s no way to talk to a hallucination, or me much less. I’ve got it! I’ll show you something you’ll never forget.

Bang

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-” I love supernovas ‘cause what are yah left with? “-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-” Nothing, cause you can’t own nor lay claim to nothing no more. “-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-” Quiet.

“My eyes!” Don’t worry about your eyes it’s your mind that should be worrying you. “What did you do?” But I do love supernovas. The wench has one less tool, then. The sky is gone; you are the sky, where does that leave us.

Drooling with his face on the cold, marble floor, Blueblood sobered.

Across the throne room, following the crimson carpet, came the purple mist. The chandeliers shook and chattered. Five metres it went before it stopped, hovering in front of Princess Celestia’s seated form.

A mouth formed from the mist with teeth wisping at the tips. “Dearest sister, has my absence been so brief that you show not the slightest surprise.”

The Princess was certainly not amused. Her face was set as her gaze pierced the gradually forming figure before her. Now it was an armoured head, and wings. “A thousand years was my sentence to you, Nightmare Moon, and you have served it.”

The form that lacked legs and hind laughed, causing her ethereal mane to dance. “Dearest Celly, we both know you could hold me no longer.”

The Princess did not speak until the final mists completed the floating figures hooves. “Are you repentant?” The Princess asked. Nightmare Moon had taken to sitting in the air slightly above her. “Or do you want start your petty rebellion again?”

“‘Start’?” Nightmare Moon’s grin grew wide. “Sister, surely you must have noticed by now. My actions were never so cunning.” She said her next words savouring every syllable. “I never left.”

The Princess remained silent. Only her sister could notice her eyes widening.

“I am nightmare. I am their dreams in the realm that only I may control.” Her face soured. “Did you honestly not suspect? Did you truly think my name was chosen for impact? Did you really think that in my meagre realm I would not grab at any power I could lay claim to!?” She sighed a stream of violet mist. She smiled. “You have lost my respect, sister.”

“How long will it be until your plans are completed?”

Nightmare Moon thought for second, looking up with faraway eyes. She focussed on the Princess. “Roughly nine hundred, four score and ten years ago.” Her body imploded and expanded into mist before solidifying face to face with Celestia. Only a single breath’s distance separated them. “No matter how dull-witted you may be you must have felt my revenge by now. I meet you now, dearest, sleepless, dreamless sister, because only here and now, after a millennium, can I mock you.”

Act IV

Face to face, the two alicorns glared at eachother. All tension in the room, which was as wide and tall as two houses, was focused on a single point between them. Nightmare Moon’s breathing betrayed held-back laughter. Through the gaps in her teeth came wisps of purple mist. Celestia’s breathing was level, skipping a few breaths here and there.

She was first to turn away. “If mocking was all you wanted to do I assume you have no more business here.”

The dark alicorn’s full-toothed smile almost split her face. “Do you not wish to knoiw what I have done?”

The Princess breathed slowly. “Would it matter?” Her eyes returned to her sister. “You said it was already done and I was dull-witted not to realise it. Surely you would see my ignorance as another victory.”

Nightmare Moon spoke, each syllable dripping purple mist. “No, sister, I can take no pleasure in a prisoner who cannot even see their bars. To live in ignorance of your prison is to live happily, like all the others.”

The dark alicorn’s horn glowed purple before dying out. She floated back a few feet. “It all has to do with magic, sister. You should know. We were the ones to figure it out, after all. It’s why we’re here.

“I can still remember how you looked back then, sister. Pink mane, small form and not a single feather on your body. A unicorn, sickly and pathetic, whose horn was barely longer than a silverfish. I am not one to speak, of course. The two of us of a hopeless type back in that pretty, primitive time.

“We were always told we would amount to nothing. Our bones and form were limited by our race and the benefits of our race were limited by our unfortunate genetic lot. Although, sister, we were not as unfortunate as he.

“We had not even the magic to balance the scales. Our pitiable nubs were unable to hold water fleas. Yes, it would seem that we were the bastards of society: those without skills or use. The problem was, though, that we believed it.

“Belief. Magic is belief. If you believe it is possible then it is. These ponies, these sickening academics, try to document it, try to rationalise it, put a ‘science’ behind it all. It works, of course, but only because it is so easy to believe in rules and regulations rather than the idea that everything is within their power except that they are too small-minded and weak-willed to utilise it.

“He saw the truth before even us. Oh, sister, do not look at me like that. We must, at least, give him that. I suppose only he could have figured it out. Dismal though we were our deformities only bred bitterness within us. His malformations bred thoughts. He took in the world through broken eyes, unformed ears and unfeeling appendages, even face down in the dirt he would be ten feet from the earth. In that insulated prison one would have to see things differently.

“He saw the joke: how fickle reality was. Those patronising ponies tried to teach him, as if they were in on something he was not. They looked at that poor foal, said how sad it was that he could never bask in the day’s beauty, that he could never sit under a tree and take nature in. Not once did they consider how flimsy there sensory world was.

“What is a tree? one would ask. It is tall with green leaves and brown bark, they confidently reply. What is tall? They would answer: the opposite of short. Is grass tall? No, it is short, they would say, feeling more confident. Are you tall? I would say so, they would answer. Are you as tall as the trees? No, they would say. So you are short, one would venture. No, they would say uncertainly. Are all trees the same size? No, they are not. But they’re all tall, one would say. Yes, but some are taller than others. So there are short trees? No, they would stress. Am I tall? No, you are short. So I am the size of the grass? No, you are taller than that. So I am tall? At that point they would get annoyed and walk off. " She laughed.

“The great irony, sister, is that he who had no access to tactile reality had the best view of it. His power trickled from this source. No reason did he have to believe as they believed, to ‘know’ as they ‘knew’. Reality was what he made of it.

“Oh, it was small at first: translucent butterflies; a twelve-leaf clover in every patch. But slowly he grew in power, like a virus he grew. The cows gave only sweet, brown milk. The rabbits were as tall as trees.

“We learned from him. We inferred what he was doing. I cannot quite recall how, millennia is enough to dull even my memory. Of course, we could not achieve his level of ability. We were far too indoctrinated by ‘perception’, although, perhaps that was for best.

“Remember the day he spawned arms. He had long since been able to feel by touch in his world, now he just needed decoration. One pony-hoof he achieved correctly you have to hoof it to him, or perhaps not. From him it seems rather unoriginal. The others changed from time to time. Now he could crawl and walk.

“He sprouted ears next: uniform and pony. Now he could hear the world, but as he had never heard a thing before he could not tell that the ignorant and befuddled masses were screaming at the beautiful and just chaos he had created.

“Oh, and the day he grew new eyes. Red and yellow each, but only two of them; I was rather disappointed. He could look upon his world, but still as he was new to sight and could not tell the sun from a leaf he avoided indoctrination.

"In his full glory we saw him: fur-coated, serpentine torso and all. The world was his.

“He changed then. In the beginning it could have been considered noble, not that he knew of any such concept. The chaos he wrought was good. Status-quo gone, no poverty for there was no wealth, each moment unprecedented, each second a miracle.

“His down-fall was order. He whose very name stands opposed to order ushered it in in its purest form: A world constructed by a single, critical mind. No longer was he a facilitator, but a dictator. Thankfully, we had learned from him the ability of belief and pulled together the last vestiges of the harmonious aspects that exist solely in the intrinsic recesses of the pony mind. We turned him to stone, I believe.

“And then we decided to have our fun. A world restructured to how it was before, but with two changes: us.”

Celestia watched her sister, waiting to see if she continued. She noticed Nightmare Moon had stopped exuding mist.

She took a long draw of air. “While I do not put particular effort into memory I am able to remember everything you speak. I cannot see my ‘bars’ any clearer if that is what you were hoping.”

“I am merely reminding you, sister, that we are not gods. We can commit impossible feats, but even I am far too limited to claim that title.” She stood up in the air, spreading her wings to cause a gust that shattered the stained glass windows, revealing the outside world. “I ask you, sister, do you believe that this is within your power.”

Celestia’s horn lit up. Thousands of fragments from within and without of the Palace came together and reformed into their frames. “Yes, I believe, but I’m considerate enough to refrain.”

Nightmare Moon flourished her wings twice before bringing them shut and resuming her seat. “I mean this kingdom. Millennia is a long time for a civilisation, especially a peaceful one. How do you think it has survived so long?” She waited for Celestia, not expecting an answer. “Our beliefs are not the only ones that matter. In all kingdoms every resident believes theirs is immortal. The difference with this one is that it has a channel for all that belief, one who does it so effortlessly she cannot even realise it.”

“So all is well,” Celestia said, growing bored. “My perpetual existence ensures a self-perpetuating Kingdom. I am sorry for I still do not see my punishment.”

“Few do: their lives are too short to allow them to. But I know you are feeling the chains, sister. I see you sitting there, stern-faced, the model of a monarch. Oh, but how happy you once were. Surely you have felt it.”

Celestia looked at Nightmare Moon with lazy eyes. She did not answer.

Nightmare Moon’s expression deflated into a frown. She huffed a purple cloud. She tried to remain calm. Thick coils purple mist emerged from her nostrils.

“Belief!” she screamed. “I have been talking of belief in this much detail and you still have not figured it out? You still have not figured my painfully simple plan?” She waited for a change on Celestia’s face. It did not come. “Your punishment is stagnation!” Still nothing. She eyed her sister with pinpoint pupils, panting purple clouds. Still nothing. She calmed and sighed a deep colourless breath.

“Sister, I told you that the ponies’ belief perpetuates this Kingdom. It also perpetuates us. As I said, we are not gods; we are not even him. We cannot live forever. We can live longer than them, but, no matter how foolish it is, Death will always find a niche in our minds. By our belief alone we could live, perhaps, two centuries. The longer we would go, the greater the fear, and so greater the belief. Our Kingdom was not the only object granted longevity by the ponies’ naïve assumptions. We are gods to them, sister.”

Celestia knew that if she ever needed sleep she would be feeling its approach by now. She gave a mock yawn. “I am not a fool. I have had millennia of long, still hours to assume and all but confirm what you suggest.”

“I mean, sister, that if your mortality can be affected by their collective consciousnesses: what else could they change about you.”

Celestia, who had been examining her left fore-hoof, stiffened for split-moment.

Nightmare Moon’s smile grew anew. “A perception of another is always is always a simplification of another. A consensus perception of another is simpler, growing simpler the more ponies that make up the consensus. You, by your nature, become this perception and as your character becomes simpler so too does the ponies’ perception of you, and on, and on.” She gave one hard, purple laugh. “All that remains of who you once were is a vague memory. The ponies’ have decided the purpose of your eternal life.” She watched Celestia who was desperately trying to hide her interest.

After a while Celestia spoke, “Well, I will have you for company in this suffering.”

Nightmare Moon smiled. Her body broke into smiling mouths, every inch adorned. She laughed through them all. The laughter could have pushed through lesser walls.

All at once she stopped. The mouths shut, sealing themselves into the unbroken blackness of coat. “We are very different, sister. We are day and night in a literal sense. Not only them, though, but everything they represent.”

She moved back over the red carpet, her form expanding into an ethereal mass that took up half the gigantic room. She had no face, now; no definite form. She was darkness dotted with dull light.

From somewhere in the mass a voice echoed, “I am night and all it entails. I am mystery; I am fear; I am dream.”

The mass sucked itself into its past form. “I am night: I am the unconscious. You are day: you are the conscious. That is our difference. They control you, for each pony controls their conscious mind. But I am opposite, the unpleasant darkness they would like to ignore. I ask you, sister: which pony can control her dreams rather than them controlling her.”

Author's Note: I have opted to cancel this fic at this point. I have lost enthusiasm for it and no one is really following it... Nobodies probably going to read this either.