The Price of Harmony

by Quill Scratch

Rating: everyone
Tags: Human, Sad
Length: 5675

Raised by a human and a zebra, shunned by civilisation, a young alicorn discovers acceptance, love, and the price of harmony. An entry for The Most Dangerous Game.

"Have you asked of yourselves what's the price you might pay?" ~Enjolras, Les Misérables.

You're not entirely sure why you have wings. Dad says that there's no reason you shouldn't, but you know that unicorns have horns and pegasi have wings, and nopony could be both at the same time. You guess Dad doesn't understand because he's not a pony, but since everypony in town shuns you both the only one you have to ask is your mentor and friend, Zecora, but she doesn't like to talk about pony matters.
In the end, it doesn't really matter. You've got groceries to fetch from Ponyville, and potions to learn to make. Zecora says today you're going to try to cure Poison Joke again…

A fun little piece, not edited as much as I'd like, for The Most Dangerous Game contest. Note that this fic contains:
1) A red and black alicorn OC.
2) A(n unexplained) human in Equestria.
3) An OC falling in love with a major character.
4) A seventh Element of Harmony.
And last, but by no means least:
5) Second person perspective.

This is basically the kind of fic I would run away from and hide behind a sofa to avoid reading. To any of you brave enough to give it a shot, I salute you and hope you somehow enjoy The Price of Harmony.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-06-27 20:25:15 UTC

The Price of Harmony

The Price of Harmony

Quill Scratch

Saturday 19th March, 989 C.E.

No matter how often you visit Ponyville for supplies, you can never quite get used to the frightened glances or the averted gazes of the townsfolk. Zecora had always used to say that it wasn’t their fault—to be frightened of something one had never encountered before was a natural reaction for anypony. You suppose she’s right, but the feeling of rejection, of otherness that follows you around after each visit is hard to shake off, no matter how many new books Dad gets you to make up for it.

Still, it’s better than the names.

Clenching your jaw, you shake your head once and push the thoughts from your mind. There are more important things to think about than what ponies had said before. Sticks and stones may break my bones and all that. Besides, simply buying the ingredients you’ll need is just the start of your task—you still need to make this potion, after all, and Zecora had always been harsh on failure.

You try to remember the start of the recipe for the Poison Joke cure. Twenty minutes of simmering water, with pinches of dried thorn-root added once every two minutes with three counter-clockwise stirs. There was something else, though, another ingredient in the first step, but for the life of you you can’t remember what it is—Zecora had always encouraged you to try to work out which ingredients you were missing, rather than panic when faltering. The active ingredients of Poison Joke are emthryn, the dye in its petals, and the trulpine in its pollen.

You’ve countered trulpine before—those poor, poor birds who flew into the Laughing Vines last season—and you’re pretty sure that daisy stems were the appropriate counteragent, but can’t help but wonder if it was the right solution here. After all, emthryn was a particularly potent ingredient and you’re sure that-

Cursing under your breath, you catch your forehoof on a rock and almost stumble. You glance up, actually looking where you are going for the first time on your trip; you can see the Everfree ahead on the road—that your musings have kept you distracted all the way to the edge of town brings you no small sense of relief—and you smile as you see Fluttershy’s cottage in the distance. The timid filly was too nervous ever to speak to you, even though she was around your age, but her many animal friends were always around and would happily play with you.

Shaking your head, you head into the forest, deciding it would be better not to risk Zecora’s wrath by being late. Smiling at the woodland creatures around Fluttershy’s home as you walk past, and quietly telling them that you’re sorry that you can’t play with them today, you reach the edge of the forest and look around once before checking your saddle-bags are secure and stretching out your wings.

Dad says that you shouldn’t be afraid to fly when you need to, but you can’t help but feel slightly ashamed. You’d never had flying lessons, raised by Dad and Zecora (the idea of Dad sprouting wings to teach you had always used to make you chuckle but also filled you with a feeling of regret, almost as if you had hoped that such nonsense could be true) and everypony, when they weren’t calling you names, was always acting like you should be perfect at everything.

You wobble a few feet into the air, uneven and dragged down by the weight on your back, before sighing and casting a quick weightless charm on your saddle-bags. With the load of the day’s shopping magically removed, you fly a little straighter, and hover up above the trees, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your back and the air in your wings. You only crash once, which is a personal record, although seeing as you end up tangled in vines—thank Celestia they weren’t Laughing Vines—you suspect this probably counts for three smaller crashes. You wrap your magic around the creepers, carefully untangling yourself from them without doing too much damage to the plants, before dropping to the ground with a thump.

The pain isn’t so bad—you’re far more worried about the state of the delicate plants and instrument in your saddle-bags. You gently hover the bags to the forest floor, opening them and looking inside with some trepidation. The plants seem okay, though a few bent leaves are present, but you’re not to worried about those. You pick the bulbous, glass container up carefully in your magic, lifting it slowly out of the bag, tugging broken stems out of its way so that you can hold it in front of your face. You examine it carefully, twisting it this way and that with a little magical push, checking the complex surface for any sign of a scratch. You cannot afford to let this break.

The instrument itself was designed by Zecora herself some years ago, and it had taken her many months to convince the local ponies to try to create one for her. It was beautiful, sparkling in what small amount of sunlight penetrated the canopy of the Everfree; spherical containers wound in an intricate helix, connected by a web of capillary-thin tubes. It was a masterpiece of glasswork, and a work of alchemical genius according to Dad. This didn’t say much—Dad knew nothing about potion-making.

Satisfied that you haven’t broken anything, you carefully place your shopping back in your saddle-bags and begin to tread your way lightly through the Everfree towards your hut.

Monday 28th December, 991 C.E.

You’re standing in the middle of the hut, stretched up on your hind legs with your forelegs holding you steady on the counter. You’ve never stood like this before, but Zecora was insisting that if you want to be a potion-make like her, you’d need to master all the skills necessary to make potions. Not having one’s forehooves available at all times to fix a mistake, even when one has magic, was simply a risk that was too dangerous to take.

You’re not making a potion today—though what you are doing require just as much care and attention to detail. Dad and Zecora are out shopping in Ponyville and you know they’ll be back within the hour, so you have to find the precise boundary between rushing and patience that will make this endeavour succeed in time.

A small chiming sound causes you to almost drop the spoon held in your magic; you place it carefully against the side of the bowl and trot over to the centre of the room where, above the fire, a small metal box is held on a tripod. You unclasp the latch with your magic and float out the contents of the box: a square cake, not quite as fluffy and light as the ones you’d seen in Sugarcube Corner, and sagging a little in the corners.

Trying not to think about your disappointment, you hover the cake over to the desk and lift up the marzipan layer you’d rolled out earlier, draping it over the cake as you would a tablecloth, if you had one. You pick up the spoon once more and give the bowl of light pink icing a few more seconds of beating, before starting to smooth it thinly onto the cake, using a spell you’d read about to set it as quickly as possible.

Now comes the tricky part—picking up a paintbrush in your mouth (you’re not convinced you’ll have quite the same fine precision with your magic), you dip the tip into one of the edible paints you’d spent the week secretly making, and begin to paint a picture on the cake.

You start by painting Zecora, her greys mixing together. Each time you try to paint a new stripe the colours start to run and you find it harder and harder to hold back the tears that you can feel welling up in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, determined that, no matter how badly this goes, you will finish it.

An approximation of Zecora’s shape and colour painted, you begin on painting Dad. Your Dad is a strange, earthy colour, and it took you most of the week to find a way to replicate his skin with edible pigments. Still, you paint the outline of his face—it goes better than painting Zecora, but you find the ears particularly tricky. You’ve never seen anypony who looks like Dad, but you’ve never seen anypony who looks like Zecora, either.

You’ve painted the two of them, either side of the cake, with a gap in the middle of them—now, you dip your brush into the red paint, and start to draw the outline of your own face. You realise the moment the brush hits the cake that you forgot to wash it after finishing Dad’s hair, and your red coat is a darker, muddier red than it should have been. It takes all your strength not to curse and throw the brush across the room, but you take a deep breath and carry on. It’s like Dad always said—it’s the thought that counts.

You hear hoofsteps outside the door, the chatter of Dad and Zecora coming up the path. Your eyes widen and you quickly dip the brush in the black paint, pulling the brush out of your mouth with your magic and lathering the paint around your head. It doesn’t really look like your mane, but there’s a clear enough resemblance. Just as you finish, your hear the door open and Zecora steps in, Dad following just behind, his hands full of bags. They stop in the doorframe and stare at you; smiling nervously, you levitate the cake and tilt it towards them, shuffling your wings in anxiety.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming?” you murmur quietly as your Dad breaks out into a huge grin and even Zecora chuckles warmly.

Monday 21st June, 992 C.E.

“Dad!” you grab your Dad’s trouser-leg in your mouth, just above the knee and tug lightly to get his attention. “I can’t see from down here!”

Your Dad picks you up, putting you on his shoulder. Zecora stands beside him, smiling. It’s dark—the moon is high in the sky, but Princess Celestia is standing before the crowd of clamouring ponies. Dad leans his head in toward yours and whispers: “You could always fly, you know?”

You bury your face in your Dad’s neck and nudge him.

“I don’t wanna fly,” you mumble. Dad nudges his shoulder up, as if he was going to push you off and make you fly, but you cling on with all your hooves. You can hear a chuckle in Dad’s throat,s o you nudge him again to make sure he knows this is no laughing matter.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “You’re getting heavy, though. I don’t know how long I can hold you up for.” You cast a quick weightless charm on yourself and Dad lifts your head up so that you’re looking him right in the eyes. “As much as I appreciate that,” he says, “that wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

You bite your lip and stretch out your wings a little, nervous about using them near so many ponies, even if you are hidden away at the edge of the forest. Dad gives you an encouraging smile, and Zecora nods at you from behind him. You flap once, twice, a little uncertain, before pushing yourself off of Dad’s shoulder with your legs and flapping continuously to stay in the air. You start to wobble and Dad reaches to catch you, but you shake your head violently. Dad’s right—it’s time you could fly by yourself.

There are a few false alarms, but after a minute or so you’re in the air, hovering pretty stationary about six feet above the ground. It’s a long way up, but you can see over the whole crowd and have a great view of the Princess on the stage.

You stare.

You’re not captivated by the mass of flowing hair, a pastel rainbow that blows gently in the breeze. You’re not captivated by the regal attire, nor the beautiful, ornamental stage behind the Princess. You’re staring at Celestia’s wings. Even as the Princess rises into the air and pulls the sun up from below the horizon with great displays of magic, you can see nothing but the huge, white wings that flap gracefully at her sides.

A few minutes later, in the light of the morning sun, you turn to your Dad and ask: “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, princess?” he replies, and you can see in his face that he doesn’t understand why you’re amazed, why you’re shocked.

“That Princess Celestia has wings,” you say, lowering yourself gently to the ground by his feet. You flap your wings once as you land, feeling them on your back properly, this time. For the first time in your life, the feeling isn’t shameful—it’s proud.

Dad’s eyes are wide.

“Your father and I had always thought, this sort of thing you had been taught,” Zecora muttered, quietly and a little guiltily. Both adults are looking at you with worry, almost afraid—their looks remind you of how the townsponies glance, but you push that thought to one side. You grin, instead.

“This is the best day ever!” you yell, your voice squeaking uncontrollably with excitement on the last word, prancing on the spot in a little circle. Dad, grinning, bends down to pick you up and holds you in his arms.

“And you think that before you’ve seen your cutie mark?” he asks, and suddenly the best day ever has become the most memorable day of your life.

Thursday 24th June, 992 C.E.

Ever since you saw Princess Celestia, you’ve been thinking about why the other ponies treat you so differently. You’d always thought that your wings made you a monster, that you were not good enough to be one of them. Each day you visited town you were reminded by the harsh glares and shut doors that you were unwelcome, an unnatural freak of nature.

Now, though, you knew that wasn’t true. After all, the Princess had wings and a horn, just like you. Dad had explained it to you, after doing a little reading in the Ponyville library (a thankfully abandoned building where he could come and go in peace, without being bothered by the superstitious townsponies), that you and Celestia were called alicorns, exceptionally rare kinds of ponies who showed elements of all three races in them.

So, the next day, you walked into Ponyville, expecting things to be different after your trip to Dodge City, but were met with the same glares and shut doors as before. Frowning, you made your way to Sugarcube corner and found a filly, about your age, making cupcakes. She looked up and sees you, and bursts into a grin.

She introduced herself as Pinkie Pie, Ponyville’s Party Pony. She proudly waved her rump in your face, showing you her balloon cutie mark, and offered to throw you a “Welcome to Ponyville” party, but you ask instead if she’ll throw you a cute-ceañera instead.

The very next day, Pinkie somehow shows up at the door to your hut and tells you that the party is all ready. Dad and Zecora find this extremely worrying, though they let you go eventually. You’ve spent the last hour walking slowly through the forest beside a bouncing Pinkie, who has been singing all kinds of crazy songs and saying the most insane things, but you don’t care. Somepony is actually talking to you and doesn’t seem to care about your wings.

You arrive at Sugarcube corner to find a full party laid out—Mr and Mrs Cake have allowed Pinkie the full run of the building, much to your surprise. You see the cake Pinkie has baked and think of your one and only attempt at baking last Hearth’s Warming eve.

“I’m sorry there aren’t more ponies here,” Pinkie said nervously. Fluttershy, the filly who lives in the cottage on the way out of town, walked over beside her and nervously looked at the floor, hiding behind her mane. She pawed at the ground with one hoof. “I asked everyone in the class, but they all seemed really busy.”

You think you know why the other ponies were busy, but you shrug it off and ask what kinds of party activities Pinkie has planned.

You’re playing “pin the tail on the pony” when there’s a soft knock at the door. Pinkie yells that she’ll get it and you pull the blindfold off, excited to see who it might be.

At the door is a little grey pegasus filly, with yellow hair. She has no cutie mark yet, but she shyly asks if she can come in; Pinkie looks to you and nods. The new filly introduces herself as Ditzy Doo, and walks over to you first, presumably to say hello. You see her focusing on your horn and wings and a your stomach starts to ache with a feeling of emptiness, but Ditzy simply smiles and closes her eyes—when they open, a fraction of a second later, they are looking in different directions, and you realise that as great as having Pinkie talk with you had been, this was what it was like to be understood.

The four of you stand and chat for a while. Pinkie asks what your cutie mark represents, and wonders if it’s a spider web. She starts to rant about you being some sort of eight-legged pony, but you interrupt her and say that you can see magic.

“Don’t be a silly filly,” she replies, “everypony can see magic.”

You cast a quick levitation spell on a slice of cake, holding it stationary. “What can you see when you look at this?”

“Floating sugary goodness?” Pinkie suggested, licking her lips. You are about to tell her to be sensible, but then realise that she is technically right.

“I see a blue orb,” Fluttershy muttered, and Ditzy nodded her head enthusiastically. You smile and cast a quick revealing charm. Threads of magic from your horn to the cake light up brightly and you can tell the other fillies could only now see them. They wrap intricately around the cake, weaving in and out of each other in the orb that most ponies could see, a beautiful web of intricate supports.

“That’s what I see,” you say. “That’s what magic is.”

Tuesday 12th September, 993 C.E.

This talisman is strange.

Zecora brought it in yesterday and had asked you to analyse the spell on it, knowing your talent would make quick work of it, but there is something in this spell’s construction that bothers you. Ditzy has been wandering in and out of the hut all day, asking when you’re going to be able to come out and enjoy the weather, but you have to keep apologising and saying that this is taking longer than you’d thought.

In truth, the spell shouldn’t work. That was what you’d told Zecora that morning. You could see what the spell was meant to do (it was a simple lighting charm that made the eyes and mouth of the talisman glow, probably in an attempt to cause a small fright) but there was no power source for the spell anywhere in the spell. This was not unusual in manually-operated talismans, but most would have some simple way a unicorn could give the talisman a little power to make it work. Here, there was nothing, but the magic reacted to yours; when your magic drew near, it tried to latch on.

“Where does it take it’s power from?” you mutter, resisting the urge to curse since Zecora is just behind you. She turns her attention to you and considers the talisman for a moment.

“Magic alone will not suffice,” Zecora said, simply. “Some spells need a sacrifice.”

You ponder her words for a while, before deciding that the talisman is simply faulty and running outside to find Ditzy. You’re both a little awkward in the air and, in your attempt to air-hug in greeting, the two of you crash and get tangled up in the branches of a large tree. You glance at each other before bursting into fits of giggles.

“Did you figure it out?” Ditzy asks, slowly. You shake your head and untangle yourself from the branches, reaching out with your magic to help Ditzy get free. She frowns. “Maybe it takes the magic from the ponies who wear it?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say. “Besides, that wouldn’t mak-” The feeling of the talisman tugging at your magic surfaces from your memories. You try to remember the exact nature of the spell, and recall a few webs that hadn’t made sense at the time. One was designed to trap small amounts of magic, commonly used by police to trace magical thieves, whilst the other drew magic from a stored source to power the first. Combined, they formed a loop which would continue sucking in magic until…

“Ditzy, you’re a genius!” you cry, throwing your forelegs around Ditzy’s neck. She grins and shrugs, as if to say, ‘well of course! What else would I be?’

Sunday November 1st, 995 C.E.

You’re standing on your hind legs at the counter in the hut, watching the aerithometer carefully as the liquids inside the helical web boiled in your carefully controlled magical flame. Zecora had left to gather the last few ingredients you needed, but you’re making a start on the base of the cure. Certain that the evaporated gases were mixing correctly, you turned to the cauldron just as the water began to simmer. You keep adding pinches of dried thorn-root and stirring, daisy stems chopped and dipped in salt to prevent a reaction with emthryn. Part of you wants to sigh—you’ve made this potion so many times, now—but you know that you can’t afford to make a mistake this time.

Dad gorans in the bed across the hut. You look up from the cauldron. “Just a few minutes now,” you reassure him. “Zecora will be back soon, and then we’ll get you back to health.” Dad simply grunted in response, hissing a little in pain. It seemed that humans didn’t react in the same way  as ponies to Poison Joke; he had arrived back at the hut almost doubled up in pain, his skin covered in sweat. Zecora’s eyes went wide and she rushed out of the door in a hurry, yelling at you to make a poison joke cure, so scared she didn’t bother to rhyme.

You continue working in silence, wincing each time you hear Dad moan or hiss in pain. The aerithometer finishes its preparation around the same time you do—you carefully tip the lavender concentrate into the cauldron, coughing as smoke billows upwards and catches in your throat. You get to work on stirring properly, adding the five petals in order. Yellow, White, Orange, Blue, Pink: You Will Only Brew Perfectly.

Zecora comes in just as you add the last petal, out of breath and shaking. She almost throws the bag of apple pips at you, getting to Dad’s side as fast as she can. You frown, expecting her to check on your potion, but it seems she’s fully trusting you to do it right. Despite the fear and panic, a warm feeling of pride starts to spread in your chest.

You finish up the cure, watching Zecora kneeling at Dad’s side, stroking his head with a forehoof and whispering in his ear. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is seems to calm him down; he thrashes less and his moans seem less painful than tired. You bottle up the cure, wondering if Zecora’s idea of a bath to soak the cure into the skin may be better in this situation as you do so, and float it over to Zecora, who smiles gratefully at you.

Friday 6th August, 998 C.E.

It’s weird calling Zecora “Mum”, but you know it means a lot to her. It’s quite satisfying, too—all your life you’ve thought of the three of you as a family, but only today is that really coming true.

Princess Celestia herself flew into the Everfree to perform the ceremony. Last time you saw the Princess you were barely more than a filly, but even now, a full-grown mare, you find her presence exhilarating. Here is the one other pony like you! It took all the willpower you had not to bombard her with questions the moment she arrived, and wait until after the ceremony. She spoke with you, briefly, concerned that nearly two decades have gone by and she hasn’t heard at all of your existence. She promises that someday soon she will invite you up to Canterlot, though it might have until next year. You can barely contain your excitement, and have to be held back by Ditzy to stop yourself jumping at the Princess and hugging her half to death.

Pinkie had been invited to provide the reception, of course, and despite the small number of attendees the party was enjoyable and memorable for all, though Celestia made her excuses after watching the first dance. You danced with a blue mare named Rainbow Dash, who Pinkie had managed to convince to come by calling her a chicken, afraid of the Everfree. Rainbow seemed quite disinterested through the dance, and didn’t really talk about much.

Dad saved a dance for you, so naturally you teased him mercilessly about getting a room of their own in the hut. Too happy to care, Dad passed you on to a stallion whose name you couldn’t remember, until finally you ended up dancing with Ditzy.

You rest your head against Ditzy’s as the music shifts into a slow waltz. Ditzy sighs contentedly, wrapping her forelegs around you in a gentle hold. You stand and sway to the beat; you can feel her heart beating as well as your own. You’re just…

There’s a scream.

Instinctively, you pull Ditzy closer, looking around for the source of the commotion. Pinkie was standing in the door of your hut, holding up what appeared to be the antique skull Mum had in her collection. You begin to chuckle—there’s nothing to worry about.

But now there’s screaming all around you, and the few ponies who had come for the reception are running, galloping away from the hut (you see a light blue blur as Rainbow flies away, rushing to be the first out.) You try to find out what’s going on: Dad is calling after everypony, his voice already heavy with defeat, and Mum is staring at the ground. Ditzy untangles herself from your arms in the confusion—you call after her, but she runs away with the crowd, calling for you to join her.

You trudge over to your parents, slowly, and stand between them, wrapping your wings around them. You don’t quite know what else to do.

Wednesday 2st June, 999 C.E.

You haven’t been into Ponyville in almost a year and part of you is worried about what to expect when you do go in. Will you see Ditzy? For some reason, the grey mare is at the front of your thoughts for the whole walk through the forest and you are almost shaking with nerves by the time you leave the tree cover.

You have half a mind to turn back and go home, but you remind yourself why you’re here. The Summer Sun Celebration. It’s been seven years since you last saw it and this year Celestia was coming to Ponyville, of all places, to perform the ceremony. You can’t help but wonder whether this time it will be different, of it it’s just the same show all over again.

You trudge slowly up to the town hall, and hide yourself away at the back. You can see the back of Ditzy’s mane and desperately want to call out, to say something—but then Mayor Mare clears her throat, and the constant babbling that is a natural consequence of gathering any number of ponies in a quiet room ceased.

You wait, bored, as the mayor makes her tiny speech. You were right to wonder—this celebration is nowhere near as exciting as the one in Dodge City. The music plays, the curtains pull back and you close your eyes to yawn as terrified whispers fly around the hall.

Princess Celestia was missing.

While the townsponies stood in confusion, you bolt out the door, jumping into the air and flying towards the forest. You struggle, pushing yourself as fast as you could possibly go, and within a minute land gently outside the hut. You push open the door with your magic and wake up Mum and Dad as quickly as you can, shaking them gently awake.

“What is it, princess?” Dad mutters, rubbing his eyes.

“Celestia’s missing. We need to do something,” you say, the words coming out almost too fast for your lips to keep up: you stutter a little and slur a word or two. Mum had gotten out of bed and was staring up at the night sky.

“I’d feared this day would arrive soon,” she said. “‘Tis the return of Nightmare Moon.”

You look at Dad, both of your eyes wide with panic—you remember the first time Mum told you the story of Nightmare Moon and shiver.

“What do we do?” you ask. Mum and Dad exchange worried glances, and Dad sighs.

“Nothing,” he says.

Mum and Dad have gone back to sleep, but you can’t. Celestia has been your idol for years and the idea of something bad happening to her, of her disappearing, is just too much to bear. You have lain awake for hours, trying to think of something that you can do, when you hear the sound of distant laughter and… singing?

Carefully, so as not to wake your parents, you open the door and trot outside. The sound’s still there, somewhere deep in the forest. Stretching your wings, you fly up above the canopy and begin to circle, trying to pinpoint the location of these other ponies.

Eventually you find them, walking up towards the abandoned ruins. You can see Pinkie, Fluttershy and Rainbow in the group, but recognise none of the others—your heart sinks a little at the thought that Ditzy is not there. Your first thought is to drop down and offer your help, but the memory of Pinkie’s terrified face at the reception is scorched into your mind and you decide against it, instead following them up to the castle.

You watch as a lavender unicorn (you think you heard one of the others call her Twilight, but you’re not sure) tries to use a spell on an old set of ornaments in the castle. You frown as a dark mist approaches, sure that wasn’t the intention of the spell, and watch in horror as that same mist picks Twilight up and transports her away.

You could almost hit yourself—the mist was Nightmare Moon! You should have seen it in the dark, starry texture, but no, you were too busy trying to work out what kind of spell Twilight was using. You quickly flash a detection charm and see that Twilight has been transported up to the next tower along.

You fly yourself up to the window again, and watch as Twilight tries again to cast some sort of spell. This time, Nightmare Moon picks up the strange stones and takes them away from Twilight, breaking them in their scuffle. You are frozen in place, watching in silence—you have no idea how to help, but you know, somehow, that you will need to.

Time is passing in a blur. The other ponies are there, now, and Twilight is explaining something with the kind of arrogant, loveable certainty that one only ever sees in a hero who knows they have a villain fooled—the kind of certainty, that is, only seen in fiction. You resist the urge to facehoof as Twilight and her friends begin to power up some kind of spell, presumably something that was a part of the “Elements” they had been fighting over.

But this spell isn’t working. You can see it, in front of you—the exact nature of the spell, every fibre that makes up its being, and your can tell that it’s missing something. There's no power source, and Twilight certainly wasn't putting any in. You reach out with your own magic, and the spell pulls at it. It's not unlike the talisman Zecora once gave you to study, only the power wasn't being drained from you involuntarily. You could push, just a little bit at a time, and see the spell start to flare to life.

More and more power, so much that you feel as if you’ll faint; you pour almost everything you have into the spell, knowing that you need to do this, knowing that this will save Celestia, that this will protect Equestria, that this will keep Ditzy safe. This was all the magic you could give; every other scrap of power was being used to keep your very being alive, yet it was still not enough. You realise, now, that your body, your whole self—at its core, it is all magic. You can feel it, fanning through every cell and branching along each blood vessel, one great spell that locked in the magic of life.

You feel a spark of realisation, as you remember Zecora's words. Magic alone will not suffice: some spells need a sacrifice.

You feel the cold touch of metal around your neck, a trinket that would soon be gone. You close your eyes, and bring into your thoughts Ditzy's face. Her wild eyes, her untamed hair, her beautiful, beautiful smile that says "I understand."

You send the last of your magic.