The Myth of Blueblood

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.”