The Waning Duskby GDQuirmChaptersPrologue (pt. 1)Prologue (pt. 2)Chapter 1Chapter 2Prologue (pt. 1) Enjoy. Harold J. Piggs was an accountant. He was 43 years old, with a daughter named Margret and a home several miles out from Toronto. It was a Tuesday. Harold awoke to the sound of a seabird, floating through the air. It wibbled and wobbled and cried and cawed. It seemed to him the sound of a very strange flute, or perhaps a whale call. He tensed at the sound. It disturbed his peace. As it drifted away, he relaxed into the covers of his bed. Content. A chill wind drifted across his face and he opened his eyes. There he saw, just across from his bed, just across from his window, perched upon a frond of an old oak, a seagull. He stared at it, but it didn't stare back. He rose from his bed to the sound of snapping joints and cried in pain. He reached quickly for the painkillers on his bedstand. His cat yowled loudly as the seagull flew off, and he jolted, knocking the bottle to the floor. The top snapped off, and the last few pills rolled off under the bed. He gritted his teeth and attempted to bend down to pick them up. A hot pain bolted up his spine, and he brought his back up rigid. He dropped to his knees, leaning forward to reach his hand under the bed. He grasped at the pills, but they were just out of reach. He leaned further. His arms trembled from the pain it caused him, and as he touched the pills, they were knocked further back from his shaking. He smashed a fist onto the ground in frustration and rose upwards, his head slamming against the bed frame. “Fuck!” he swore, tears forming in his eyes as he clutched at the back of his head. “Dad, where did you put my iPhone?” his daughter yelled from downstairs. “Check under the computer desk, you often forget it there!” he shouted back. “I can't hear you!” Harold drew back from under the bed and stood up, breathing heavily. He dressed himself tenderly and left his room to help his daughter. He found her texting her friends in front of a bowl of soggy cereal. “That's going to go bad if you don't eat it,” he said. She didn't respond. Glancing over to the kitchen counter, he saw the stove clock reading 7:44. “Damnit,” he said, rushing to grab his coat and shoes. He found his suitcase by the couch and scraped his papers and work from the table into it. “Oh, I took your iPhone last night since mine was missing,” his daughter said from the table. Harold barely registered it, rushing out the door and into his car. He drove off towards Toronto. Several minutes later he reached the local traffic, backed down the road towards the city. Stopping, he gave himself a moment to calm down and think. “iPhone, my iPhone... my alarm!” he cried. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, and a loud 'Honk' screamed out, to the sound of several more honks and some people shouting about the backup. He felt a sharp pain up his spine, reminding him he hadn't taken his painkillers before leaving. He looked towards the clock, which read 8:00. “Shit, shit, shit...” ⁂ One hundred and thirty kilometres out from Timbucktu, deep in the mesas of the Maroon Desert, two equines shared a drink of Terskish coffee in a tent. “Mm... for crooks and thieves, you people sure know your beverages,” the earth pony said, sipping on his cup. “Hah!” the hefty zebra across from him shouted. He grinned wide, showing two gold teeth to match his earrings and necklaces. “You make me laugh, little yak; we've followed the track, and now here the kettle is hearing the pot, who ought not have the mettle to call the pot black.” The pony scowled. “Don't start with that. I spent years tracking this down, it's my right and my due. You got a problem with that, you can give me my bits back and shove off, you striped cow.” The zebra set down his cup. He leaned his considerable bulk back slowly and stared down at the pony with a stern expression. “There was a time long ago when you called me a friend, and I called you brother, and each to our end would be there for eachother. But that night we met blind in the house of Emirs, that memory has since become faded from years; not a story we've told, our memories cold, our bodies grown old and all that I've heard was the word that this friend of mine split from the herd. While you used to have fire that churned in your soul, your greed ached and yearned till it burned through a hole, and all that was left of that proud little prat was a lonely old rat who would sell out his friends, to meet any ends, just to save his own hat. So excuse my surprise at a break from your lies, but ignoring this question is very unwise.” He leaned in close. “When did this swine grow a spine?” The pony stared back bitterly. “I don't need to listen to this, Jambazi. I came for the coffee, not some tirade about when we were young and naive. It's time to move on, old man. Grow out of the nursery rhymes.” The ground shook, and a booming rumble was heard outside the tent. A mare shouted, “Dr. Caballeron! You'll want to see this!” The pony Caballeron stepped outside, followed by Jambazi. About fifty metres away was a massive, deep red cliffside, a hundred metres tall, stretching far out into the distance. A large cloud of red dust was rolling out from the cliff, where a huge chunk had slipped from the side to the ground, crushing several minotaurs beneath it. The remaining slaves had scrambled away from the cliff, where, as the dust settled, an enormous skeleton was revealed, embedded in the cliffside. “Beautiful,” said Caballeron. Jambazi stared at it in horror, hoping dearly it wasn't what he knew it was. After a long moment he said softly to Caballeron, “You'll find what you spent on the desk in your tent.” “Hm?” Jambazi whistled loudly, and from around the camp, several zebras began rounding up the surviving minotaurs and shackling them in lines. Caballeron stared around in shock. “Wha... Jambazi, what are you doing?” The zebra stared at the skeleton in the cliffside with resolute dread. “You didn't tell me what we'd find in this rock. You'll be paid back in full, but I'll have back each bull. And never, ever again will we talk.” Caballeron watched in horror as his slaves were herded back into lines, and Jambazi's gang prepared to leave. He could scarcely believe his eyes. “Overgrown skunk!” he shouted. “Striped greasebag! Those are my labourers! You... you treasonous hippo!” “Excuse me sir, but what do we do now?” Caballeron looked back at the mare he had forgotten about. He noticed he was shaking and breathed deeply. “Sir?” He stared at the skeleton in anger. “We dig it out ourselves.” “...Sir?” “We only need the eye.” The mare shuffled her hooves nervously. “Um... sir, as a paleontologist I'm sure you already know this, but squid eyes generally don't fossilize. In fact, being made of cartilage, even the skeletal structure of squid shouldn't fossilize well.” Dr. Caballeron rose a hoof to point at the massive head of the skeletal squid. There, like an enormous ball of glass, was a pitch black eye. “I'm an archaeologist, not a paleontologist. I don't know any of that shit. Now help get the scaffolding up, we've only got a week at best to get that thing down.” ⁂ Rushing through the doors of McAndrews Financial, Harold made his way up three flights of stairs and found his cubicle. He sat down at his desk and opened his suitcase. He pulled out several drawings his daughter had made of characters from shows she loved. Mostly cartoons. “Goddamnit!” he shouted. Holding his head in his hands, he gripped at his hair. He heard then, sharp on his ears, the clicking of the director's shoes coming near. “Good morning, Mr. Piggs,” he heard from behind him. Harold tried to turn around, and his back froze. He tried to open his mouth, and he found his teeth grinding eachother unpleasantly. “Have you finished the ledgers for the end of the month?” Harold's eyes glanced towards the drawings on his desk. “I would hope, Mr. Piggs, that if you wanted to pursue a career in cartoons you'd have done it outside of this office. Or at least have been in the office at all.” A thin hand tapped on the small, plastic clock on his desk that read 8:24. “This office opens at 8:00. You've already missed that deadline twice before. We have very strict policies on this, and it makes a poor show if we don't keep our word on them. Three strikes, Piggs. I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave the building.” Harold heard every word exact. He picked up his briefcase, stood and left quietly. The next nine hours were very strange, and very indistinct to him. ⁂ The streets hung arid in the autumn air, strung from the courts of Canterlot in a dusty yellow like the strands of wheat growing dry and thin outside. The sun beat slow across the brows of the ponies in the streets. A fearful quiet crept across the cobble, and save for the court of Open Debate, a hush had made its way into the capital of Equestria. “The Saddle Arabians, who sell us grains, cut ties with us, and a drought appears out of nowhere? That's not coincidence, that's bucking sabotage!” yelled Lady Hackles. Save for the court of Open Debate. “It's absurd to think that our farms can't produce at that kind of level!” said Lady Highmane. “What are the bloody Earth Ponies for? We are easily self-reliant! This is a cheap ploy by the farmers to bleed the hard work of the rest of us out by our bits!” “Are you insane? The Earth Ponies have busted their backs to get every ounce of grain they can from this kind of weather!” screamed Lady Viridian, “And speaking of weather, have you maybe considered the lack of rain might have anything to do with the pegasi who runthe weather?” “For the last time,” shouted lord Vane through gritted teeth, “You can't make rain when there isn't any moisture! This isn't a matter of condensing the evaporated water, the water is gone! Vanished! Skadoosh!” Princess Celestia slowly rose from her seated position at the head of the table, and a lull fell over the nobleponies. She looked around the room with displeasure. “Can you hear that?” she asked. With the ponies silent, the voices of the market outside crept through the open windows. The voices were hushed, and low. “I'm sure you can. The ponies of Equestria,” she said. “They are relying on you to walk out of this room, fully able to make the right decision when you vote on these issues this evening. They are scared, and unsure of what will happen to them. As I am sure is true for many of you. I made the decision to leave the Open Debates non-procedural trusting that you would be willing to yield to one another in your turns, and that trust has largely not been misplaced. I understand you are all afraid, but now is not the time for panic. This is the Equestrian Parliament, and I have complete faith that each and every one of you will do what you think is best for Equestria. I suspect that you may need reminding of that from time to time, but your hearts are in the right place.” She looked across the ponies sternly. “Now settle down, and speak like civilized ponies.” She laid down, and silence filled the room again. Lord Calamus Silver cleared his throat and spoke nervously. “Perhaps, and let it not be said that this is representative of my own view on the subject by any stretch of the imagination, but it has been suggested to me by members of my constituency, who look upon the subject with a different perspective...” “We get the idea, you're a blithering turd. Get on with it,” snarled Lady Hackles. Calamus cleared his throat a second time. “Well then. Princess Celestia, given the absence of rain, the drying of the fields and the lack of moisture to create rain, it has been suggested that perhaps we could make use of the sun to evaporate the ice caps of the Macintosh Hills and create rain over...” “Absolutely not,” said Celestia firmly. “Under no circumstances will those mountains be unfrozen. This decision is final, and all further discussion on that train of action shall be suspended.” The room went deathly quiet, and the harsh tone of the Princess's words rung through the ears of the parliament. A sharp tang floated into the room, and many of the ponies began turning their noses up in disgust. The dryness of the air soon became forgotten in the wake of a sudden chill and the smell of deep rot. A voice rose, slow, drawling and hoarse. “It is, too late now for that,” the voice intoned, “Princess.” The ponies turned to look at the figure that had appeared suddenly at the foot of the table. He wore a dusty grey cloak that covered most of his thin body and face, leaving only a scraggly haired, grey mouth and chin. He swayed as he stood, as if unable to stand straight. “Who the buck are you, then?” asked Hackles. The pony seemed to ignore the question and continued, his voice cracked and wheezing. “A new river in Saddle Arabia flows. The ice is melting, Princess.” The pony stooped over into a coughing fit, and when he rose, his jaw was shaking. “'Ock thast...” He paused, raising a hoof to his chin. He pushed upwards, to a resounding 'thck'. His jaw stopped shaking. “Apologies,” he said, before continuing. “Not fast, but steady. I have,” he paused, sounding bewildered, “No post to station.” Lady Viridian spoke up, “You seem ill. All you alright?” “Who cares if the pony's alright, he certainly isn't alright in the head,” interrupted Hackles, “Who is this geriatric fruitcake?” “He is Captain Zarath,” said Princess Celestia. “Head of the Dusk Watch.” She looked at him tensely. “How do you mean, 'No post left to station?'” ⁂ The door closed quietly behind Harold. He left his coat and shoes at the closet by the door and dropped his suitcase by the kitchen counter. He made himself a light sandwich of cucumber and tomato and sat down at the table to eat it. It was cool, and crisp. He saw his daughter sit down in the living room, on the couch. She turned on the television. “Hey Dad.” She changed the channel, and music started playing. It was some of that electronic stuff she had gotten into lately. He noticed himself staring at her. It hurt too much to see his wife in her, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. His mind wouldn't let him turn away. It ached with loss, and he could feel his grief building deep in his throat, choking him. “Peggie,” he started. “Don't call me that,” she said, angry. “It's a stupid name.” “Margret,” he called. She humphed in annoyance. “Why don't you take your friends out to the movies?” She got up and walked towards the kitchen. “We just went to see something last weekend, why...” she scrunched up her nose, “Oh god, are you drunk?” “No.” Harold's back throbbed with a dull pain. “Yes you are, you're fucking drunk! What, did Melissa turn you down again or something?” “No, she didn't.” “Yes she did. Don't lie to me like that.” “I just told you she didn't, go watch your fucking cartoons already.” “Yeah, you tell 'em, big, tough man. At least I can get a date and don't whine all day about my horrible fucking back.” “I have a slipped disc.” “You have a slipped life, fucktard. You're a shiny turd of mediocrity with delusions of adequacy. Fifteen years at the same damn company without a raise and you come home drunk out of your fucking mind and tell me to fuck off with my fucking friends. Well fuck you too, Mr. Big and tall, fuck you and your half-assed excuse of a life. At least your drunk-ass wife didn't lie to my face.” Harold hit her. She stood there a moment, tears welling up in her eyes, and rushed to her room. Harold collapsed backwards, missing his seat and dropping to the floor. A well of pain shot across his back, and he shook with tears. His sandwich fell apart across the floor. He closed his eyes and tried to will his daughter's face to leave his mind. It stung him. His mouth trembled at the thought, and most of all, he hurt at the expression she held. No anger. No fear. Confusion. His mind was dull, and his thoughts were incoherent. He just wanted to leave the house and run. His vision blurred, and his tears drifted him off to sleep. When he woke, he felt himself on a cushioned bed, with the most incredible sensation of floating. The bed fell fast and numb into the emptiness. At once comforted with the closeness of the cushions and terrified of the empty void he flew into. He was jolted awake when the car scraped over a large rock. The screech of metal on stone was heard, and Harold panicked. He didn't see the horse, but he felt the thud. His head flew forward, snapping back on the expanding airbag as something white cracked on the window. The glass broke from the seal. He had barely the time to realize the strange red pulp was his legs being crushed before passing out. Prologue (pt. 2)SIX YEARS HENCE ⁂ Harold woke to the smell of anaesthetic, the steady tones of a heart monitor, and the sound of pressurized air. His eyes flickered open, but were met with a blurred grey. His thoughts were dim. Slowly, as if weighted, he attempted memory. His mind flashed with colours and stung with sounds. No completed thoughts found their way to him. He lay still, and silent, as colour slowly filled his vision. Then shapes and textures. He saw, above him, soft florescent lights on a white ceiling. He knew this place. A minute later, he realized he was in a hospital, and he thought of Margret. It was another half hour still when a nurse came to check on him. “Mmr Pksfll!” she said, surprised. “Dttr mmfffls rrhnaa.” He glanced towards her and felt exhaustion. His eyes floated to the ceiling, and he rested them. He wanted to close them, but something ached in his chest, almost desperately telling him to stay awake. He needed. But he didn't know what. He waited. A doctor strode through the door. He spoke firmly, but slow and calm. “Do you know your name?” The words came to him clearly, but the meaning was harder to find. It took a few seconds for his thoughts to form, and he gave a slow nod. “What is your name?” He didn't move. He wanted to speak; his lips quivered, but he couldn't find the words. The doctor's voice came in slow and steady. “Try to remain calm.” He felt stress rise up through his throat and he swallowed. He was deeply confused. His breath caught, and he slowly relaxed into his bed. His voice was high and muffled. “Harold,” he paused, “Joseph Piggs.” ⁂ A strange creature ran in the night. It smashed through branches, swaying and bumping It's strange, bloated figure through the forest. Ponies followed It. Outside of the occasional shout, they were silent. They were focused and relentless, following the broken path It made as closely as possible. Soon they came to an enormous, fast-flowing river, where the creature was trying to haul itself to a large, rocky island with a small cottage. The ponies jumped in after It, and as It grasped at the shore, It's hooves slipped on the rock, and It fell into the river. It flailed, as It's bloated body made It unable to keep It's head above water and was pulled down. The ponies caught up and between six of them began to pull at It. It shook in panic, turning and squirming to get away, until one of the ponies hit It twice over the head with a large baton. A voice spoke from the island, “Oh no, now that won't do at all. Dear me. Very unseemly.” The water around the island began to tremble, and, as the ponies stared on in shock, the island rose from the middle of the river, the water pushing away from it and sweeping them downstream in a massive torrent. As they struggled to stay afloat, back where they were forced from they saw an enormous crab, with trees and a cottage atop it, dangling It in a massive, rocky claw. From atop the crab, an elderly stallion stood staring down at the unconscious creature with a disapproving glare. “Not good at all. You need a right proper cleaning, that's what.” ⁂ Harold spent most of his time trying to accomplish simple things. Eating healthy amounts of food. Walking more than ten feet. Understanding full sentences. He sometimes put things in his mouth without thinking, or had difficulty with speech and movement. He hadn't realized his life wasn't his until the third week had passed. He remembered well what happened to his own father, when he was struck by disease in his time. He had first stopped playing badminton. Then he had difficulty eating certain foods. And soon the loud, argumentative man had been reduced to little more than a heartbreakingly sincere thanks for the help he received in using the washroom. Harold hadn't thought much of his father at all since he died. But having felt such an incredible sense of freedom at having his catheter removed made him wilt in shame when, for the first time in twenty years, his voice reminded him so strongly of a man who had lost all care for pride. Harold didn't want to lose his pride. And that scared him most of all, because he knew that it was his pride that had made his father who he was. He didn't want to be his father, not after, not before his disease. But he was afraid that he had already become him. He couldn't become that man. His daughter had to know he would never be that man. He waited until his doctor arrived. She walked through the door with a clipboard and a smile. “Good afternoon, Harold. Are you feeling alright?” “I'd like to talk to my daughter,” said Harold. Dr. Kilroy paused. She sighed, then spoke. “When you first woke up, we went through the procedures of contacting your known relatives. There were very few. Your mother suffered a serious heart attack and passed away some years ago.” “How,” Harold paused. “How many years ago?” Dr. Kilroy set down the clipboard. “As the doctor of a recovering coma patient, it is required that talk of the date is restricted until the patient has first largely recovered their mental faculties and is in a rational state of mind. As your doctor I can officially say I think you've recovered to that point. I do need your consent to mention it, though.” “Please,” said Harold. “Your mother passed away four years ago, two years after your entry to Toronto General Hospital.” Harold was shocked at the times given, and was saddened by the news of his mother's death. He nearly forgot why he asked. “And my daughter?” “Your daughter declined to see you.” Harold blinked. He felt very, very strange. Like something slipped deep in his chest. He felt thin and tight. “I see.” “If you'd like, we can try to contact her again.” The doctor seemed genuinely concerned. “It's been a few months.” “No, that's quite alright,” said Harold. He leaned back into his bed. “I think I'd like to be alone right now.” ⁂ It woke to the sound of boiling water and the smell of freshly baked bread. It was lying in a soft bed, wrapped in a thick, warm patchwork quilt. The room was very small, with only space enough for the bed, tucked into a corner, with a bedstand at its foot and a bookcase beside the door to its right. The walls were made of thick, gnarled wood, and a window above the headrest was letting a little light in through a set of excessively jolly flower print curtains. It stood from the bed and felt the world shift back and forth slowly, as if It was on a boat, or in a rocking chair. It looked out the window and saw several squid swimming through the air, being chased by a black cat running after them. The cat leaped through the air, catching one of the squid, which promptly exploded. 'Oh,' It thought, 'A dream.' It was scared by this. It did not enjoy It's dreams. They were cold, and scary. It did not want to find out what about this dream would be cold and scary, so it crawled back into the bed and under the covers and waited to wake up. It ignored the sounds and smells beyond the door. *ggrrrwlwl* It tried very hard to ignore the smells beyond the door. It's stomach tried especially hard. *bbrrblwl* It decided the bedsheets were possibly dangerous, as this was a dream, and they might swallow It up like a fresh loaf of bread. It left the evil bed, creeping closer to the door and the smell of a fresh loaf of bread. It opened the door slowly. Through the crack, It could see a counter, with a stove and a sink, and in between It's doorway and the counter, a small table, just big enough for the two sets of a plate and cutlery on it. Set in the middle of the table was a fresh loaf of bread. It stuck It's head out and looked to either side for anyone else. Nopony was around, so It hobbled over to the table and laid down. It snatched up the bread and began eating as fast as possible. The bread was warm, and soft, with a taste of something flavourful It couldn't recognize. It was magnificent. Once It had finished the entire loaf, It's stomach felt nice and full. It was a very strange feeling, one that It was determined to enjoy for as long as possible before waking up. “I see you've woken up. I hope your bed wasn't uncomfortable; I only have the one, I'm afraid.” It froze up in fear, hearing the elderly stallion walking closer. It curled up to seem small, and unimportant. “Strange. I could've sworn I made a cinnamon loaf this morning. Do excuse me, I've been quite a poor host, not making breakfast; it seems I'm a little more on in my years than I thought. You wait right here, I'll be back with something to eat.” It heard a few clanks, and the stallion left the room. After several moments It uncurled. A teapot, two saucers and two cups had been left on the table. The tea smelled very nice. It heard hoofsteps approaching and curled up again. “Well. It seems I haven't thought this through at all. I can't even fit this all on the table, it's simply too small. That's alright, we'll just leave the teapot on the floor when we aren't using it.” It heard several more clanks and hoped desperately the stallion wouldn't take too long eating his breakfast before going away. “Mmfh. Uegh. Well. Seems I completely overdid the toast. Sorry, dear, I'm rubbish at cooking. I knew a mare once who made the most fantastic brioche au fromage, picked me right up in the mornings. Ah, but that was long ago in Prance. Couldn't stay, you understand, never managed to pick up the language. Kept thinking the chefs wanted to kill me when they asked if I had found the huile d'olive.” The stallion seemed to pause in speaking. “Don't know any Prench, eh? Don't worry about it, it was a pretty bad joke anyways. Would you like some tea? I understand if you don't want the toast, I'm sure I have some muffins or a baguette lying around somewhere.” The stallion paused. “Well. I suppose you are rather exhausted. Some stoicism is understandable. But, if I may be so frank my dear, you are being perhaps a little rude.” The stallion looked at It closely. “That isn't good for your back, you know. Ponies aren't armadillos.” It did not know what an armadillo was, but didn't really want to find out. It wanted this dream to end. It did not like waiting for the cold and scary to find it. It did not want to see this stallion. It very much did not want him to see It. “Stop that at once. I went through the effort of pulling you out of that river, soggy and cold, dried you down and gave you a bed for the night. And while my breakfasts might not be the finest this side of Equestria, I at least deserve the courtesy of seeing you face to face.” It did not like that idea at all, and It curled up tighter, turning away from the voice of the stallion. “Very well, then.” The stallion stood, walked around the table to face It, and sat down again. “I shall simply have to imagine. You are a beautiful mare, with big brown eyes. You have soft fur, and your muzzle comes down to a cute little nose. Now, in the meantime, I shall enjoy my view of your luscious face while I drink my tea.” It heard loud slurping from directly in front of It. After a minute of this, It became very suspicious of this dream, and how real it seemed, and how long it had gone on. Slowly, carefully, It uncurled, looking at the stallion in front of It. He was a light blue pegasus with blue-green eyes and a long mane, white with age. He was very small, but his confidant posture and lean body made up for this somewhat. It noticed his left wing was crooked and wondered if he could fly or not. As It looked to him slurping his tea, he looked back at It. He saw a young earth pony mare, although it was honestly hard to tell. Her body was bloated, and her legs were of different lengths. She had a tattered grey-green coat and a yellow mane, which swelled at a large lump on her back. Her jaw wasn't straight with her face and was tilted open, showing several overgrown teeth. She had brown eyes, one of which was smaller and partially covered by a large growth that distended the left side of her brow and face. They were deep and sad with years she shouldn't have had. The old stallion, without an ounce of sarcasm, spoke softly, “As I said. A beautiful, brown eyed mare.” She stared at him and cried. ⁂ “Harold?” his doctor asked. “I've brought Dr. Steiner to see you.” A large, bearded man stepped through the door. Harold greeted him. “Hello, Dr. Steiner.” “Hello, Harold.” Dr. Steiner sat in a chair by the door. He nodded to Dr. Kilroy, who left the two alone, closing the door behind him. The room was very quiet. “How are you today, Harold?” “I'm good, thanks.” “Will you take a seat?” said Dr. Steiner, gesturing to the bed across from him. Harold sat down. Dr. Steiner took out a small, brown notebook and flipped several pages. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” “I have, yes.” “Mm-hm. Good, good. I heard you visited the senior's home yesterday. Quite the adventure. Did you make any new friends?” “Mr. Tony was very nice.” “Wonderful.” Harold didn't think so. He didn't think so at all. He felt small, and unimportant. Dr. Steiner adjusted his seat. “I'm going to ask you a few questions now about what happened to you. I want to find out how you feel. Is that alright with you?” “Yes.” “Alright. I want to recall what happened the night you crashed. Take as much time as you feel you need, there's no rush.” He had hit his little girl. He hit her and went driving. He hadn't known what to think, or what to do. He simply left. He drove away. Harold's mouth started moving in a very strange way. “Are you alright, Harold?” asked Dr. Steiner. Harold felt like everything had gone horribly wrong. “I'm not a child.” “I'm sorry. What do you mean?” Harold was hurt. “Fuck you. There's nothing to say. I'm not a child. I don't need help to chew my food. I don't need someone to come with me to the bathroom. I don't need someone telling me what decisions I should make. I don't need you telling me how wonderful it is that someone gave me a second glance at some crusty sack of senior citizens.” Harold's heart beat hard in his chest. He felt strained. He sunk into his seat on the bed and felt empty. The doctor slowly set down the notebook on his lap. “I'd think there's quite a lot to say.” Harold had a headache. He felt so much like he was right. He knew he wasn't. He sometimes couldn't eat his food. He often couldn't walk. And more than ever he was far from able to make his own decisions. It hurt him very much to know that. He felt lonely and anxious. And still he remembered. Somewhere, far drifted from the highway, he swerved and crashed into a large, white horse. He felt the briefest sense of vertigo as his body flew towards the expanding airbags from the unbuckled seat. He fell unconscious. And left his only daughter alone. Without a mother or a father. He hadn't even introduced her to his own parents. Who would take care of her? Who would feed her and clothe her? “Harold?” He looked over towards the doctor, blinking. “I can see you've a lot of things to think over. I'll give you some time to collect yourself. A nurse should be by in a half-hour to check on you; if you need anything, just let them know.” Harold nodded slowly. He lay back on the bed, relaxed, and the world faded away. ⁂ Harold was on a bed, falling. He remembered this. He had fallen asleep in the car. He did not enjoy the feeling at all. The inky sky above him felt cold and filled with fear. He thought sometimes he saw things moving in the blackness, but he couldn't tell. Then something moved in the blackness. A small fuzz of dark blue was barely distinguishable. It seemed slow at first, but he quickly realized it was only very far away. He felt scared. It drew closer, and as it did, it began forming into a distinct shape. An enormous horse, dark as midnight, with a cloak of stars trailing behind it, growing larger with every breath he gulped. His fear grew, and he felt an unbearable pressure, as if he was being pressed into his bed. He stared into its eyes. Harold was a man who believed that the world was complex and impossible to understand. He was not very imaginative, and he tried his best not to be. He felt very much that his limited descriptive tools were woefully inadequate then. He felt as if, were an ant atop an elephant, and the elephant atop the tallest mountain, upon the greatest continent on a massive planet within a distant galaxy being drawn into an endless swirling singularity, he would have been a small piece of leaf the ant had eaten for lunch that day. And the universe the rage inside those eyes. He clutched his sheets with aching hands. And woke suddenly. He was falling, on a bed. The stars were strewn above him, and the wind whistled sharply across his body, his sheets flying off the bed, floating away above him. The stars were a beautiful and brilliant sight, more numerous than he had ever seen before, swirling elegantly through the peaceful night sky, framing the massive and delicate moon. He had barely the time to realize the body the wind flew across was not his own before the bed hit the ground. It smashed to pieces, and a familiar agony jumped through his new and strange body. As he lay there, his muzzle cracked open on the bedside, he saw a seagull glide down onto his chest. It waddled up to his face and stared down at him with coal black cavities where its eyes would have been. It seemed to judge him sharply. “Good enough, about,” it said. It cocked its head once and flew off into the night sky. Harold lay there for a moment, still, and in pain. He screamed and choked on his blood. Harold passed out. Chapter 1Princess Luna was engaging in Spring Cleaning. She had just been introduced to the concept by her new maid and was fascinated by the idea. The mayor of Ponyville had her old things sent up from the Castle of the Two Sisters just the other day, and she'd been looking forward to digging through them. She squealed with excitement. She opened her closet and levitated out a large box. She started pulling things out at random. “Ooh! Our old cloak. We missed this dearly.” It was a deep purple, with soft silk and silver trimmings soft silk. She gasped, “Sir Limbly!” She hugged a large, white, wool spider. “We thought thee lost amongst the wreckage. 'Tis a joyous day indeed! We wonder what other marvels art hidden here.” Levitating some objects from the box she noticed a slip of paper stuck between a chessboard and an old candlestick. Curious, she pulled it out. It was a letter addressed to her, from a few years before her banishment. She thanked the preservation spells Celestia cast to protect the castle after it was abandoned and opened it up. It was a poem titled 'A Starlit Moon'. Luna froze. She swallowed the emotions that rose up without warning and set the letter delicately on her bedside drawer. She didn't want to have to read that right now. She grabbed Limbly and left the room for breakfast. 'What an awful way to start a day,' she thought. ⁂ Harold woke to the smell of anesthetic and the steady tones of a heart monitor. He felt sore, but strangely fresh. He rose his forehooves to his face. They were a chestnut brown. He noted they were also shaking rather violently. He set them down and stared at the ceiling. He was hurt and confused, and he felt deeply, deeply alone. He felt a looming presence from deep in his mind, and slowly, but with enormous weight, something became very clear to him. Those eyes that he saw, that held within them the raw emotion of an eternity, those eyes had come to him in the night, held hard upon the face of a midnight blue horse, stripped him bare and birthed him anew. The eyes of God. He did not want to think about that. He did not want to think about anything. He counted the tiles in the ceiling. He heard a creaking noise from his left and looked to see what it was. There, in the bed a few feet from him, was a lime-green horse, wrapped in casts covering its front legs, with bandages over its eyes and mouth. It had a tube leading to its stomach from what looked like a large IV bag. The horse was on its side and seemed to be staring at him. He wondered how it managed that through the bandages. Harold looked back at the ceiling. Twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty-four... A very deep, droning voice spoke from the direction of the bandaged horse, “To end the thaw you must kill the host atop the mountain of Gurkron. She will be there. You have one year to do so.” Harold slowly turned to look at the bandaged horse in stupor. “You must be cautious, you must be careful. Tell no one. Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.” Harold stared on in sheer loathing. “Fucking hell you pile of god-blasted bandages, I fall a thousand feet out of the sky on a bed, broke like a twig on my family tree waiting to bleed out by the gallon, when I wake up again in this infernal hospital bed, so I can hear you tell me to murder some woman on a mountaintop and quote fucking Euripides! Why? Why!?” Or so Harold tried to answer. Flailing wildly in his bed, the words sounded much more like a very long, very angry whinny. His hooves caught on his sheets, and he fell out of the bed with a 'thump'. “I shall give you speech and understanding so that you may accomplish your mission.” Harold felt a strange shudder, like cold water flowing down his scalp. Harold's muffled voice came from under the tangled ball of sheets in a strange language of neighs, whinnies and nickers, “This doesn't make any sense! You don't make any sense! Farce! Foolishness! Sweet bloody applesauce, you god-forsaken horse!” After a moment of struggling, he broke free from his prison and tried to stand. He couldn't keep his balance, and he fell to the floor, crying in exasperation. He dragged himself to the bed beside his own and held himself up his forelegs awkwardly, staring down at the bandaged horse in unadulterated rage. The horse was snoring. Harold trembled. His vision blurred; his face went hot and he clenched his strange, new teeth tightly. He reached a shaking hoof up to strike to horse as hard as he could... And saw the face of his daughter, sleeping. He scrambled backwards in panic, hyperventilating. His back hit up against the bed, and he laid there, beside the bed. He cried, choking and hiccuping. His mind reached into the void for hope, and there staring back was the memory of those angry eyes. He brought his shaking hooves together in front of him. He never really used to do this, and it didn't look quite right, but he hoped God wouldn't mind. “I am sorry, Lord,” he sobbed. “I have failed you. I am a disappointment. I am sorry for not praying to you. I am sorry for not thanking you. I am sorry for not showing up to church enough. I am sorry,” he choked, “I am sorry for driving my wife away. I am sorry for hitting my daughter. I am sorry for not donating to the Salvation Army. I'm sorry I made fun of Ms. Bujold's hair so much and for not recycling. I'm sorry for using the handicapped parking spaces, I'm sorry I stole ink from the office, and I'm sorry I never made my bed at the hospital...” “That's alright, I don't mind.” Harold jolted at the voice answering him. A yellow horse with a pale blue mane entered the room, carrying a tray with several cups and needles. It had a hairnet and a nurse's hat and seemed to have a mellow, easy-going look on its face, which seemed to Harold very strange on a creature so similar to a horse. “We're happy to fix those. It's our job to take of you, after all, not the other way around. Oh!” She stared down at him, surprised. He was sitting awkwardly against the bed, half-wrapped in sheets, his eyes red and sore from crying. “Bad dream?” Harold suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Yes. A very bad dream.” “Ah,” she said. “Shame. You're the stallion they just brought in for the botched teleport, aren't you?” “What?” “Well, I mean, we assumed it was a teleport. They found you in a broken bed out in the fields. Can't think of too many other ways you'd have ended up like that.” She walked over to the bandaged horse across from him and set down the tray. “Oh. Yes, that's,” he paused, “pretty much what happened.” He watched as the nurse walked over to the other patient and set her tray on the bed. She picked up one of the needles and began injecting it into a small port on the large plastic bag hung next to him. “So, what happened to him?” “Poor thing had his entire torso burnt in a fire last week. He hasn't been able to see or eat since.” She sighed. “It's quite tragic, but he's looking to be able to walk by the end of the month.” She put the needle away and picked up the tray. “He'll probably never be able to speak again.” “I see.” “Still, he seems to be dealing with it pretty well. His family's been very supportive, you know. Um, are you okay down there?” Harold looked down at himself and the mess of sheets and legs he found himself in. “I,” Harold considered what to say carefully, “...had some trouble trying to walk earlier. My legs don't seem to be working like they used to.” The nurse set down the tray and walked over to help him up. “Oh, that's perfectly normal. Probably just stiff muscles from the healing. Try not to move too quickly, it might take some getting used to.” Harold slowly managed to get his feet under him properly, swaying a little trying to stay up. “I think you're right there.” She stared down at his flank. “Oh, that's an interesting one. What do you do, then?” Harold stared over at his own flank. There, printed into the brown fur was a gold-yellow coin, with a rough image of a loon on it. It was a simplified Canadian loonie. He glanced over to her flank, where there was an image of a white cross with four small hearts. He gave the answer he was used to giving. “I'm an accountant.” “Guess that makes sense. Snowheart, by the way,” she said. “And you are...” she stared at the loonie with an intense expression. “I'm...” “Wait! Wait, don't tell me. Lemme guess,” she hummed to herself, while Harold felt embarrassed at her stares. Given the relief he felt from at least some kind of normal conversation, though, he did his best to ignore it. “That's a loon, and you're an accountant. I'm going with Loonsworth,” she said. “...Sure,” he said. She stared at him with her mouth gaping. “No way! Really?” “Yes, really,” he said. “Wow. That's...” she took on the embarrassed look he had moments ago. “...Pretty suckish, actually.” She reached a hoof up to her mouth, looking anxious and ashamed. “Oh geeze. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just such an awful name.” She looked panicked and hid her face behind her hoof. “...Don't look at me. I'll just shut up now.” Harold suddenly felt incredibly guilty for agreeing with her like that. “It's fine, it is a terrible name. That's why... my friends call me Loonie.” “I, uh, should probably get back to the other patients,” she said, awkwardly, turning to leave. “Oh! Uh, before I leave,” she said, turning around, “Since we have your name, and the doctor checked you out as being fixed up, you can feel free to leave whenever you want.” She turned again and left. Harold wasn't sure what to think, or do. He had felt quite nice when he wasn't doing anything at all earlier, but that last few times he tried that he found himself falling into things with voices speaking to him. He'd just woken up, attempted homicide, prayed to God for the first time in decades and had an awkward chat about his made-up name with a blue horse, all in the span of a few minutes. He decided to leave the hospital. The idea scared and excited him. He hadn't left the hospital in months. Or years, apparently. But this was a new hospital. 'Loonsworth, eh?' Well, anything was better than Harold Piggs, he thought. He stepped forward. And promptly fell on his face. 'This may take some learning,' he thought. ⁂ Luna rushed into the dining hall, Sir Limbly floating just ahead of her. “Tia! Tia, see what we have uncovered...” She stopped. The long dining table had many ponies laying at it, staring at her. At the head of the table laid Princess Celestia, paused in eating a plate of toast and salad, the only food on the table. Celestia set down a slice of bread. “Sister. It is good to see you.” She glanced at the object. “Is that your old stuffed spider?” Luna nodded hesitantly. “We were,” she paused, “unaware the crown was hosting guests this morning.” Some mutterings crept from the table of ponies. Celestia spoke up, “It has become custom for the subordinate elective monarchy to go over first readings and discussions of bills of the day during the royal breakfast. It saves time, leaving the afternoon free for debate.” Luna shuffled her hooves. Celestia indicated towards the end of the table. “Would you like to join us?” “That's quite alright, thank you. We shall be in our room should anypony need us.” Luna left the room, closing the doors behind her. Once they were shut, she tucked Sir Limbly in close and walked back to her room. ⁂ “Now then. We were discussing the South Canterlot Public Grazing Bill, proposed by Lady Viridian. Lord Calamus Silver has the floor,” said Celestia. A grey pegasus stood. “In reluctant deference to the comment made earlier by Lady Hackles that the proposed bill is 'cattle excrement',” “Bullshit. I said it was bullshit.” “Her statement did have a kernel of truth in it, and although I would not go so far as to say it would lead to 'the destitution of our entire society', the visual state of the central road to Canterlot is a vital factor in the sustainability of the Canterlot tourist industry, which in turn is the central economic force of the city as a whole. While the south field is of a healthier crop, the east field is of an at least comparable quality” The pegasus laid down, and an earth pony raised her hoof. “Lady Viridian has the floor,” said Celestia. She rose to speak. “That kind of view is heartless and callous and is exactly why we have the problems that require us to pass this kind of bill. Forcing the impoverished to march halfway down the side of a mountain for a meal they need to live is entirely obscene.” “See, this is what you get. When you buy your bills in bulk, you get big buckets of bullshit.” “Thank you for that elegant and deeply relevant piece of poetry, Hackles,” said Calamus. “That's why I'm here.” Calamus sighed. “As important as your concerns are, Lady Viridian, it would be best if you saved your views for the Open Debate and focused on the points of the bill itself,” he said. “It's just something that needed to be said,” she responded. Hackles farted loudly. “Sorry everypony, I just had to pull that particular piece of inspired commentary out of my ass. Felt it was appropriate given the other comments pulled out of asses this morning.” Celestia sighed and continued munching on her toast. She really wished Luna had stayed for breakfast. She would have had some interesting things to say, certainly. ⁂ Applejack was selling some apple pie in the market square, a place whose name always seemed a mite silly to Applejack, given it was circular. She saw a pink blur rushing through the marketplace, towards her stand. “Mornin' there, Pinkie,” she said. Pinkie Pie rushed on past, and Applejack humphed. “T'aint got the time ta say hello, eh? I guess there's somethin' that got her busy.” Pinkie rushed back to the pie stall. “Hey, I always have time for friends!” she said indignantly. “Ah don' mean it like that, Pinkie. Ah was just wonderin' what has you so up in a tizzy,” said Applejack. “Oh, there's somepony new in town, but he's stuck in the hospital, so I'm getting his 'Glad-You're-Better-And-Out-Of-The-Hospital-So-You-Can-Be-At-Your-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Party' ready. It's going to be at the Brown farm. Oh!” she gasped, “I almost forgot! Here's your invitation.” She hand Applejack a letter. Applejack frowned. “Why's it gonna be there?” she asked. “Oh, Brown heard the new pony's an accountant, and he's been needing one, so he's hoping to hire him. I know you do all that fancy-shmancy stuff yourself at the Apple farm, but Brown never learned any of that, so he needs somepony to do it for him,” she said. “Ah see.” Pinkie squinted at Applejack suspiciously. “You aren't going to make a scene at somepony's Welcome Party, are you Applejack?” “'Course not,” said Applejack. “Ah woulda rather'd it done somewhere else, but Ah don't got much of a right telling him not ta host it if he's willing. Ah can bite the billet fer the night, Pinkie, don't you worry about me.” Pinkie Pie squinted for a bit, then smiled wide. “I trust you, Applejack.” “'Course you do. Now git moving girl, you got work ta do.” “Yes ma'am!” Pinkie ran off to the Brown farm, at the edge of town. Applejack watched her go, tentatively. “Ah just hope he can do the same.” ⁂ “Moving on,” said Celestia. She levitated a short stack of sheets in front of her. “Bill 'C-571' as proposed by Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia.” The room filled with quiet chatter, thick with anticipation. It had been sixty years since the last bill Celestia proposed, and another eighty before that. “To amend the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act, to reestablish the Equestrian Diarchy, and to allow for the eventual repurposing of the Equestrian Parliament. “Her Most Empyrean Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Parliament of Equestria, enacts as follows: “1. This bill may be cited as the 'Bill of Equestrian Reestablishment'. “2. The following definitions apply in this act, with otherwise conflicting established definitions notwithstanding: “'Princess' meaning the highest rank of authority, including Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia and Her Most Astral Majesty Princess Luna, with all other holders of the title being superficial and not applicable within Equestrian Legislature. “3. Sections 1 through 5 of the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act are replaced by the following: “1. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, each Princess shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill, and no bill shall be so enacted without the approval of each Princess. “2. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, the Subordinate Elective Monarchy shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill. “3. Sections 6 through 12 of the Act are repealed. “Bill ends here.” The room fell deathly silent. It was void of sound, save for the chatter of the market and the soft pattering of the paper Celestia was now setting back on the table. The anticipation of earlier had been replaced with a grim tension, tight in the air, and an unease uncomfortably lain on the ponies there. Celestia waited. “Then if there are no comments, moving on...” A pony tentatively raised a hoof. “Lord Patterspiel has the floor.” He stood slowly, and he stayed silent for a few seconds. “For the purpose of clarification,” he began slowly, “the proposed bill would effectively be the dissolution of the Equestrian Parliament.” Hackles held her head in her hoof, speaking quietly, and bitterly, “Of course that's what it means you, you...” She inhaled deeply. “Celestia's sweet fanny acres, I need a drink,” she said. She stood, turning and leaving the room. Celestia looked a bit flustered at the comment, but answered Patterspiel, “Not at all. The Equestrian Parliament would remain supported by state taxes and continue its role as an advisory council.” Patterspiel laid down again, and the room was silent again. “Then if there are no further comments, moving on... ” ⁂ Harold managed to hobble his way to the hospital doors. The journey, though short, was very surreal to him. Strangely coloured unicorns in doctor's outfits would occasionally pass him in the hall, and in the main hall was a green horse reading a magazine behind a desk. He made to leave. “We need you to sign a release form before you leave,” the horse said. He walked awkwardly back over to the desk, where she was still reading her magazine, her hoof outstretched with a pencil in it. Harold reached out a hoof and made to pick it up. He knocked the pencil to the ground. The mare looked away from her magazine to stare at the pencil on the ground. She glanced up at Harold. “Well?” Harold poked at the pencil with his hoof, and it rolled around the floor. The mare looked annoyed, and she muttered something probably quite rude about brain damage. “You pick it up. With your mouth.” Harold looked surprised, and a little disgusted. “Off the floor?” She rolled her eyes. “That's where it is, isn't it?” Hesitantly, he bent down and picked it up in his mouth. “Now sign here,” she said, pointing at a line at the bottom of a form. Harold leaned forward, the pencil in his mouth, and he slowly scratched out 'Loonsworth.' Something seemed strange about what he'd written, besides its legibility. A moment later he realized it was that he'd written it in another alphabet. The mare picked it up, looked at it and raised an eyebrow. “Close enough. You can go,” she said, going back to her reading. Loonsworth carefully walked to the doors of the hospital and opened them. “Hi!” the grinning pink pony said. Loonsworth lost his footing for the third time that day. ⁂ Calamus closed the door quietly behind him and walked to his lounge. His wife was reading a book there. He pulled a copy of 'Don Rocinante' from the bookshelves, poured himself a glass of bourbon from the wine cabinet and laid beside his wife Tender. She nuzzled him gently. “Good afternoon, Calamus.” “Good afternoon, dear.” They laid there reading for a few minutes, when Tender spoke up. “Is there something the matter, Calamus?” “Whatever do you mean?” he said, continuing to read his book. “You're tense,” she said. “Did Lord Sideburn persuade the council to vote against your public libraries again?” “Not at all,” he said. “Nothing so pedestrian. Celestia proposed a new bill.” “Oh? Curious. What was it?” “She wishes to revoke the power of the Equestrian Parliament and establish Princess Luna as a ruling Diarch.” Tender set her book down and stared at her husband in shock. “That mare hasn't been in the modern world for a week,” she said. “I very much suspect she doesn't know the first thing about running this country, even if we were to ignore the risk of another episode with Nightmare Moon.” “I suppose we'll just have to pray she knows what she's doing,” said Calamus. “She did run the country for quite a number of centuries with Celestia; one would hope it is just a matter of oiling up the old gears.” Tender hummed and hawed. “The bill will be voted on next week, yes?” “Yes.” “Well then,” she said, sounding pleased. “That's plenty of time to persuade the council to vote against it.” He choked on his bourbon, and he spoke hoarsely, “You don't seem to quite understand, dear; Celestia doesn't often propose bills. She enacts one of her own maybe twice in a century.” Tender was annoyed. “So?” “The Equestrian Parliament doesn't refuse Celestia's bills, Tender. It never has. Not once, not ever in a thousand years, not with a single vote against.” “But you could, couldn't you?” “In theory we could, but the chances of it actually happening are so astronomically...” “You could do it, though.” He stood silent for a moment. “Yes. We could.” Chapter 2An elderly pegasus was sitting outside his cottage, enjoying a book. Willow was not sure quite what to make of this pegasus. It was absolutely astounding how quickly Willow had become used to him being around over the last two days, and now Willow was confused, but comfortable in the life Willow was enjoying. He had introduced himself as Galloway Whorlseley earlier, though Willow thought that was a rather long and silly name, and so preferred to think of him as Gerry. And Gerry was being very annoying. “Now that is rather distracting, Willow. I'm trying to enjoy a good book. While I appreciate you wanting to spend your time around me, there's simply no reason to stay nudged up against me like that. We had a splendid hug earlier, and that's all well and good, now do please give me some personal space now and again.” Willow thought he was being quite selfish, hogging himself like that. But Willow had little right to complain, especially after he had been kind enough to give Willow such a nice name. It was very strange for Willow to adapt, since Willow had so long been used to 'It'. It was made a little easier once he explained it was for the colour of Willow's coat, and because 'You rather act like one'. Willow quite liked being thought of as a tree; trees were strong, sturdy things, that smelled nice. Willow quickly smelled itself. “You shouldn't go about smelling yourself like that, Willow, it makes you look like a dog. Quite unbecoming of a lady.” Willow's nose wrinkled at the smell. It was very un-treelike. Whorlseley sighed, “Oh Willow, what am I to do with you?” He set down the book, and stood up to stare at her. “You won't speak to me, I don't know where you're from, or by whom you were being chased, and least of all do I know why you have such a singular physiology.” He frowned. “But I do know you need a bath.” ⁂ Luna lay in her bed, her hoofservent standing at the door, in case she was needed. Another day, the thick, soft sheets might have given her comfort, but today she found it hard to enjoy them. The world around her was strange and different. She saw public schools where there were once temples in her and Celestia's honour, and standardized housing where the poor district used to swell with sties and hovels in lower Canterlot. Celestia had built public hospitals to aid the diseased and the injured, and absolutely everything seemed more cramped and tight, the city filled with more ponies then ever before. Even the houses of the aristocrats were now smaller and taller, the old mansions of the upper side long since retrofitted into public libraries. 'Public libraries!' The very idea of public libraries shocked her immensely. That the government was actually paying to teach every single pony to read and write and paying to house and provide collections of information for them all seemed absurd. She'd heard they were even hiring ponies to teach arithmetic. It was a ludicrous waste of funds. At least it had been a thousand years ago. Now she thought she knew almost nothing of what was right to do. It seemed in her absence her ponies had flourished. “Hoofwright?” “Yes, your grace?” “Art we,” Luna held her words to her tongue. They felt very strange, and ungainly. “...A good mare?” “...Of course, your grace.” “Thou hesitateth,” she said, inquiringly. “No, I,” the young mare stumbled, “I mean no disrespect, your grace, it was simply an unexpected question.” Luna felt her heart drop. She spoke softly, “...Thou art afraid of us.” “No!” the mare exclaimed. “I would never presume to be afraid of you,” she said, with a hastily added “Your grace.” “One cannot presume an emotion, Hoofwright,” said Luna. “One can merely fear its presence. Regardless of thy true feelings, thou fearest the thought.” Luna slumped into her bed, sulking. “'Tis more than enough, to be sure.” Hoofwright stood rigidly. She didn't know how she was meant to respond to this. “Leave me be, Hoofwright.” Hoofwright nodded, though Luna couldn't see it, and left the room, the door closing with a quiet 'click' behind her. Luna wished to mope and brood, but could not bring herself to. It would be simply too unfitting one of her status. Rather, she stood from her bed and decided to resume her cleaning from before; at least then she thought she might be progressing in some fashion. She looked around the room. It was, largely, clean, save for the large box in the corner. Her eyes were drawn away from it, though, and to her bedside drawer. The letter from before still laid there. It taunted her with its ripped opening. She knew well that it would be a bad idea to read it; it had never been good to read those letters before, and she greatly doubted that would change now. It hurt so very much not to, though. She picked it up in her magic, and brought it close. It seemed so innocent trembling there in front of her. 'Perhaps,' she thought, 'Celestia would not mind were I not the one to read it?' ⁂ “Oh gosh, are you okay?” Loonsworth groaned. His legs were still sore from the healing; he doubted falling over so much helped them any. He glanced up at the bright pink horse in front of him. “I should be alright. I would like some help getting up, though; my legs aren't working very well right now.” “Oh right.” Pinkie gave him a hoof up, and he stood shakily. “Wow, you're new!” “Thanks?” “Your welcome,” she said. “I'm Pinkie Pie. What's your name?” “Loonsworth.” “Oh wow, that really doesn't roll of the tongue, does it?” She furrowed her brows and took on an expression of deep contemplation. “Loooonsworth, Loonswooorth. Loonster? Loonar. Loon-colt. Loooon... pants? Hmm...” Loonsworth was confused. “I don't follow.” “I'm trying to come up with a nickname 'cause your name is really, reeaally boring.” Loonsworth was a little shocked at her bluntness. “Well, my friends call me Loonie.” “Of course! I can tell we'll be the bestest of buddies in no time,” she said excitedly. “Okay.” “So Loonie, are you staying in town, or just visiting? We don't get visitors here too often. Oh! But the Fall Weather Fair is coming up soon; you must be in town for that, right?” “No. I was teleported here by surprise,” he said. “That's why I was in the hospital.” “Oh.” Pinkie Pie wilted in disappointment. “So you'll be leaving, then?” Loonsworth paused. He hadn't given much thought yet to what he would try to do at this point. He had found it best so far to avoid thinking all together; it was certainly less stressful. “I don't think so. I don't think I have anywhere else to be, but I also have nowhere to stay.” Pinkie bounced right back at that. “That's perfect! Sesame Brown has a room up for board at the farm. I'll show you the way there, if you want. It's the least a new friend can do.” “That's very nice of you, thank you,” he said. He found himself pleasantly surprised by this horse. “No problem, that's what friends are for. Just follow me,” she said, hopping her way out of the hospital. Loonsworth followed slowly and carefully. He had a hard enough time keeping balance as it was, but the hurt from his injured legs made it very difficult for him to walk faster than a hobble. At least Pinkie Pie didn't seem to mind the pace. ⁂ Luna entered the throne room in the early afternoon. Her sister was seated, speaking to a mare and a stallion dressed in lavish cloaks. “Sister? Might we speak with thou a moment?” asked Luna. Celestia looked down at Luna with concern. “I'm a little occupied discussing the Maretonian bridge project. Is it urgent, or could we speak later? Perhaps... 6:30, after the meet with the Farmer's Union? I should be able to spare ten or fifteen minutes then.” Luna pursed her lips. “We were unaware we had to schedule a conversation with our sister.” “I am sorry, Luna, I am very busy. The fiscal quarter is coming to a close today, and there is much to take care of to prepare,” said Celestia. “Well,” said Luna, upset, “We art glad we art worth ten or fifteen minutes of thy time, Celestia.” Celestia turned to the diplomats. “I'm terribly sorry, could you excuse us a moment?” The diplomats frowned in displeasure, but nodded. “Deepest apologies, consuls,” she said. She stepped off the throne and followed Luna into the hall outside, where she closed the door quietly and turned to face her sister. “I'm sorry, sister. The day is very stressful. What is the matter?” “Before we departed from Ponyville, after our return, the mayor extended an invitation to the Fall Weather Fair tomorrow.” Celestia stood silent for a while. Finally, she spoke. “...Yes?” “We wish to attend. Celestia stared at her sister in shock. “Luna, surely you did not interrupt my meeting to ask my permission to attend a fair.” “They have a poetry reading planned.” “Luna,” said Celestia, shaking her head, “Oh Luna, whatever is the matter? You are my sister, and you know better than to ask my permission for this. What is so important about this particular poetry reading?” Luna inhaled deeply. “They have a unique tradition. The collection of poetry is supplied by thy student Twilight and is most impressive. But as well one may... request a piece to be read.” Celestia stood silent for a moment, letting the information digest. Her eyes widened rapidly. “Luna! You know better than that. I'm now glad you brought this to my attention.” She looked down at her sister sternly. “You know well enough that you have never been rational about him. It is dangerous. It was... far beyond bad enough the last time.” Celestia stared at her sister silently a moment, her face a stony gaze of disappointment and regret. She said softly, “It was much more than bad enough.” Luna bit her lip. “We understand the ramifications of this decision, sister, it is just the once...” “And then what? Once more? Twice more? No, Luna, we cannot lower ourselves to this kind of indulgence. We must be a common pony at heart. We can never be a common pony in body, Luna. All things pass, even us. But that will not be for a long, long time. You understand that, yes?” Celestia looked down at her sister softly. Luna stared up. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and her face was a twisted expression of bitterness. She lowered her gaze and breathed deeply. “We were wrong to ask this of you sister. Thou art correct in all things. We shall not go.” Celestia sighed. “Nopony is correct in all things, Luna. Thank you for keeping a cool head, I know it isn't easy.” She looked worriedly at her sister. “Are you alright now, Luna?” Luna stamped a hoof, and rose herself straight, sniffing back her pride. “We shall be, Celestia. In time.” “Good afternoon, Luna.” “Good afternoon.” The sisters turned away from eachother, one back into the court, the other standing with her back to the door. “Tomorrow, then.” ⁂ As Pinkie and Loonsworth slowly made their way to Brown's farmhouse, Loonsworth examined his surroundings. The sky was bright and blue, and the air smelt fresh and clean. A soft breeze drifted over, and the sun beat warmth over him. He felt something deeply enjoyable about the way the breeze felt through his fur. The path they were now walking up was a cart path through a massive field of barley that swayed and bent in the wind. “This is a very nice day,” said Loonsworth. “Oh yeah, Cerulean Skies really knows how to live up to his name. He did good.” “Hm?” “Here we are!” shouted Pinkie. They had arrived to a large, brown barn, next to a farmhouse. Loonsworth was confused. “He's in his barn?” “Oh yeah, he should be in there,” said Pinkie. “Go on, he's waiting.” Loonsworth pushed open the door to the barn and stepped inside. Several dozen horses jumped at him, shouting “Surprise!” Loonsworth jumped in shock, and his felt his hooves slip under him. Pinkie caught him as he fell back. “Oof! You're heavy, you know that?” He found his balance again as she pushed him up. Staring into the barn, the whole place was filled with variously coloured horses, and although most did not, many of them had horns or wings. Music started playing, and several of the horses started moving to it. It looked a lot like strange dancing to him; he supposed it probably was. A few of the horses came up to him. “Welcome to Ponyville. Right Wheels, at your service,” one of them said, grinning. He was a deep blue, and had a scraggled amber mane. “Call me Wheels.” He held a hoof out from his body, facing Loonsworth. Loonsworth blinked. “It's a hoof. You bump it,” he said cheekily. Loonsworth rose his hoof and slowly stretched it out to the other. Once they touched, Wheels dropped his. Loonsworth slowly lowered his too. Wheels grinned at him, “Yeah, Pinkie's parties can do that to a pony.” It suddenly occurred to Loonsworth that these might not be horses at all. It never mattered to him before to bother knowing the difference between a horse and a pony, but he could appreciate a straight-forward definition. He didn't know quite how to ask without seeming rude, though. “I'm Berry Punch,” another said. Loonsworth bumped his hoof against hers too. “Bon Bon.” “Crescent Moon.” “So,” said Wheels, casually. “Care to tell us your name?” “Loonsworth.” “Ouch.” “Wheels!” said Bon Bon, appalled. “Sorry,” he said. “My friends call me Loonie,” said Loonsworth. Wheels blinked. “You know that's not really much better, right?” “Ah invited ya into my house, Wheels, ya'd do best not to mock my guests.” Wheels frowned. “Hello to you too, Brown.” The pony that had stepped up was a light-green stallion, with a slick, clean-cut brown mane and thick mustache. He had a deep frown on his face, that looked as if it had been etched into his face from years of cynicism. “Ah do hope mah guests aren't causing you any trouble, Mr. Loonsworth.” His words were slow and thick, like dull, snide molasses. Loonsworth noted he said the word 'guests' with particular venom “I can see the weather, Brown,” said Wheels. “Enjoy the party, Loonie. Nice meeting you.” He left off to the tables with snacks set off to the side. “Well. He usually ain't that civil,” said Brown, drearily. “It don't matter, really.” He reached his mouth over to the nearby table, and pulled the cork off a bottle of wine. He picked the bottle off the table in his mouth, holding it diagonally. “Drink?” he asked through clenched teeth. Loonsworth stared at the strange image of a pony holding a bottle of alcohol in its teeth. His legs were sore, his mind was exhausted and he had just gotten too tired to be shocked by anything going on around him. He really, really, really wanted a drink right about now. He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to actually drink one, though. “No thank you.” The pony shrugged, and poured the wine from the bottle into a glass. He set the bottle down, and picked up the glass with a hoof. He sipped out of it. Loonsworth stared at the hoof. It was a small impossibility, really, given all that had happened. A hoof holding a glass like it was stuck to it seemed minor compared to everything he'd gone through lately; it just all started to strain after a while. He started feeling nauseous and felt like he needed to lie down. “So,” the pony continued with the same, drawling voice. “Ah hear you're an accountant. Ah've been needing a new one for a while now, since Numbers Game passed away; we don't get too many a' you around a place as small as Ponyville. Do ya happen ta be available?” “That's quite nice of you to offer, thank you. I'm unemployed right now,” said Loonsworth. “Can I ask what the job is?” Sesame Brown hmphed. Loonsworth thought it sounded almost pleased, but he wasn't really sure. This stallion seemed very dismal to him, for the most part. “We need a resource and finance manager on the farm. We move a lot of supplies and product on a decent scale; it's important we keep track of our expenses and sales. It's not a huge place, as ya can see, but Ah can't do it myself.” “My last job was as a bookkeeper. This should be very similar,” said Loonsworth. He hoped he was right. “Good. Since ya don't have a place yet, Ah've heard, Ah can lease ya a room at the farmhouse while you're working here,” said Brown, in his dreary tone. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Brown.” “Formality means Ah do need to know where ya got yer degree, though. Canterlot, Manehattan, I just need something to put on the record books if we do keep ya around.” Loonsworth blinked. “Canterlot,” he said. Brown blinked. “Really? That's...” he frowned, “...impressive, Mr. Loonsworth. Ah suspect this might not be the sort'a thing yer used to. Ah don't rightly know if Ah can pay the kinds a' wages yer used to, so if yer just stopping by on yer way back ta bigger things, Ah'd rather know now before I make the mistake of hiring somepony Ah won't be able ta keep.” “I'll be staying around a long while, I think,” said Loonsworth. “You can pay be the standard rate; I think I don't have many things I want to go back to right now.” Brown stared at Loonsworth through squinted eyes, his scowling frown etched deep into his face. Loonsworth felt very uncomfortable under that gaze; something about it seemed to dig into his mind. It peeled back his mind. “Hmph. Ya got a past, but we can keep it there. Ah'm not mah sister, but Ah know a thing or too about integrity, and ya got enough of it that Ah'll drop it there. Ya can go mingle if ya want; Ah'm not much for this kind of thing,” said Brown, frowning. “Ah'll be in the study if ya need me. That's in the farmhouse, the door at end of the stairs to the right. Afternoon, then.” Brown drank up his glass, and turned to leave. “Just a moment,” said Loonsworth. The pony looked back, raising an eyebrow, “What?” “I'm feeling nauseous. Is there somewhere I can lie down?” Brown squinted at him. “Ya know this is yer party, right? They're all waiting ta meet ya.” Loonsworth blinked. He had nearly forgotten that. It seemed to him since he had begun his conversation with Brown that the ponies had just left him alone. He looked over the crowd, where the ponies were still chatting and dancing. Several of them occasionally looked towards him, but each time they stopped. Each time they would look over to Brown then look away; they seemed to give him a wide berth. Loonsworth thought it was nothing he bothered to care about. His legs were still sore, his stomach was churning and he felt a great weight of stress. “I do appreciate the party, Mr Brown, but I feel very poorly right now. If it's alright with you, I'd rather meet the town another time.” Brown hmphed again. He seemed to do that quite a bit. “Don't go saying sorry to me, Pinkie insisted on the thing. Ah hate parties. Ah'll show ya to yer room now, though, if ya really want.” “Thank you,” said Loonsworth. He began following Brown towards the barn doors. “Have you tried the punch yet?” said Pinkie. Loonsworth blinked. “No,” he said. He hadn't noticed her come up, and now she walked beside him. “You aren't leaving without trying the punch, are you?” she said. Something in her voice seemed a little less like doubt and a little more like concern to Loonsworth. “I'm feeling sick. I think I'm going to go lie down,” he said. She seemed to wither a little at that. “Oh. That's a shame. I won't make you stay if you are; sometimes that's just what happens.” “I'm sorry I made you go through so much work,” he said. “Thank you for the party.” “No no, don't thank me, just enjoy yourself. That's enough for me. And sometimes that means being left alone for a while. It's just a shame you aren't well enough to meet everypony at the moment.” She smiled. “I hope you feel better in the morning.” “I hope so too.” She stopped, and the other two ponies left the barn. The other ponies in the barn began to talk amongst themselves in confusion. “I'm sorry, everypony, Loonsworth is still sick from the hospital,” said Pinkie. “The party was a bit much. He'll be staying here at the farm, though, and you'll all have lots of chances to meet him soon.” ⁂ Loonsworth laid in bed. It was very quiet around him, and it gave him space to clear his thoughts. He felt clean. He felt tired. He felt... afraid. He was lying on a clean mattress that felt no different from what he was used to. The room around him was neat and orderly, with a window to the back and a door to the front. The walls were beige. The pillow was soft and fluffed. Everything was quite comfortable. It struck a chord in him of familiarity that scared him greatly. He didn't understand why he was here, or what he was meant to do, or why God had chosen him to be here at this time. He missed his daughter greatly, but he felt he did not deserve her anymore. 'Maybe that's it. I have failed. I am being punished.' No, he thought, that didn't make sense. It was common knowledge that when God punished people he was a little more showy about it than that. Floods, meteors, lightning, that sort of thing. At least a beheading or two. 'I am here because God wants to get rid of me.' Absurd. He had much easier ways to do that. Killing him, for example. 'I have been sent here to prove myself. I have been given redemption. He has given me my job back to prove I can put my talents to use. He has given me neighbours I can be kind to. He has given me a home I can appreciate and learn to thank Him for.' Loonsworth paused, and he recalled the eyes he had seen before. He recalled the brutal anger they had. God was punishing him for his sins, by taking away his daughter, but in His eternal forgiveness, he was giving him a second chance. Loonsworth's mother had always told him, “God has such gladness every time he sees from heaven that a sinner is praying to Him with all his heart, as a mother has when she sees the first smile on her baby's face". He always thought she was being sardonic, since he couldn't remember many times when she had smiled at him. Certainly not many when she was acting very 'Christian', as she put it. But it seemed now to make such sense. Yes, he would not stray from his duties. He would not let God down. God had given him a new life. That had to be it. ⁂ Whorlseley considered the pony before him. She was very strange, certainly, and not just because of the way she acted or the way she looked. She seemed to be ignorant of some things any pony at all should have understood. Over the past few days she had shown no understanding of how to use cutlery, how to , or even how to read. A lot of the time she just looked at things. With very wide eyes. Rather like she was right then. It was a little unnerving, to say the least; especially while she was being given a bath. Whorlseley had stopped Lt. Fuddlesworth off at a nearby lake for it; he at least seemed content enough to chew on a nearby tree. Willow was being rather less cooperative. It wasn't that she resisted taking a bath, persay, more that she simply was not bathing herself. She was just sitting there, a few feet into the water, examining her surroundings. “You know dear, I can appreciate the beauty of the great outdoors as much as the next pony, but perhaps you could do so at another time?” he grunted, scrubbing a cloth over her fur. She didn't answer, content to keep glancing about at the nearby trees and rocks. He grumbled and kept scrubbing. He was finding himself rather disgusted at the amount of grime that was soaking out of her fur in the water. It was astounding; he doubted he had ever seen a coat so stained with muck in his life. It had been so ground into her fur that he had originally thought it was part of it. Now that the muck was coming out it was clear that the mottles of grey were just muddy dirt, and her coat was a dark green all through. As it washed away, on her strange, humped hide he could make out her cutie mark. A pure black circle. Outside of its mysterious meaning, it seemed particularly unusual in its exact symmetry and perfect roundness. So much of the mare, from her silence and expressionless face to her lumpy, malformed body seemed almost broken somehow, but here this circle was unbroken and unbent. More mysteries. He sighed. 'Well, at least she's clean now.' He started wading back towards the giant crab in the center of the lake. “Come on, now, we've got to make good time. We're leaving for Ponyville; that's a good couple months south from here. Best get an early start.” He didn't need to tell her to follow him, she would have done it anyways, but it made him feel better to say it out loud. “I've got an old friend to visit about that symbol you're sporting there. Something about it seems familiar, but I can't place what. She always was a lot better at the whole encyclopedia thing.” ⁂ Luna teleported into Golden Oak Library at the beginning of the afternoon. She felt she had to minimize the time spent away from Canterlot. The room around her was a warm, wooden scene, with books covering the walls, a few in short stacks on the floor, and one or two piles of paper next to a desk to the side. She had never been to Golden Oak before, but it seemed quite homely. She saw Twilight walking down the stairs, reading her new copy of Thaumaturgical Equestrian. “Good afternoon, Twilight Sparkle.” Twilight suddenly dropped the magazine. She rushed down the stairs and immediately began levitating the scattered books and papers onto the desk and shelves. “Princess Luna! I had no idea you were going to visit us,” she said nervously. Luna brushed her off, “Oh, 'tis nothing important. We have merely arrived for the Fall Weather Fair. We hear thou hast quite the poetry reading planned.” “Oh!” said Twilight, relieved. She spoke bashfully, “I can't really take the credit. I did organize it and donate most of the collection, but it was actually the mayor who suggested it.” “Really?” said Luna. “Well, 'tis right of her to do so. Poetry is a wondrous art indeed.” “Oh, absolutely, it's fascinating. I was just having a conversation the other day with Professor Wordsworth about his ancestor, the famous poet Wordsmith. Did you know he apparently had a sectoral heterochromia? His left eye was part yellow, and part blue-green.” Luna cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as fascinating as the colouring of his eyes may have been, we are perhaps more interested in his poetry; and if we are not to depart soon, we may miss the reading of it scheduled for 12:30.” “You're absolutely right,” said Twilight. “I didn't realize how quickly the time went by.” “Thou must excuse us,” said Luna. She prepared her spell, and a wave of blue swept down her body, leaving behind much shorter, dark blue pegasus. “We shall be donning the guise of an ordinary pegasus, so as not to draw attention. We do not wish to detract from the poetry by being an unnecessary diversion.” “That very thoughtful of you,” said Twilight. “Er... do you plan on changing your speech?” “We already have,” said Luna. “As thou can hear, our voice has been altered so as to disguise our true selves. 'Tis noticeably higher in pitch, and softer in tone.” “Uh... well yes, yes it is...” “Excellent,” said Luna. “Then we shalt proceed with the poetry.” She left the library, heading west of the market square, where a small group was gathering around an outdoor stage. It was a small, red thing, with a slapdash podium nailed to the middle. It was hardly a great feat of construction, but it seemed to do the job. An older, beige unicorn was standing at the podium. He was currently come to the end of reciting a classic piece by the poet Silvertongue. “...He took a seat, that he might ease, His weary feet, that now he thought, So chilled upon the evening breeze, His clothes, he felt, would warm him not; And though his soul felt ever broken, Still inside he felt content, Discomfort was an honest token, Grief was due his earned lament.” The end was met with the polite stamping of hooves. As the reader warmed up for another, Luna suddenly felt a nervousness creep over her. She felt wrong to do this. Her sister was a kind, and fair pony; she knew this now more than ever, and she had done so much for her since her return. Perhaps it was improper to demand this kind of indulgence. Perhaps it was best to just let it go. But most of all, she found that she was afraid of actually hearing what she came for. Celestia was right; it was dangerous, so very, very dangerous. “Do we have any requests? We have quite the collection. Maybe something somepony wrote themselves?” 'We should not be here,' she thought. With a very, very heavy sigh, Luna turned to leave. “We are sorry Twilight, but we must cut our trip short.” Twilight looked back, surprised. “Are you sure? But the reading just started.” “Yes, we'll have to join you some other...” Her words were interrupted when a voice called out from the crowd, “A Starlit Moon, by Wordsmith.” “Ah. A classic.” Luna froze.
Prologue (pt. 1) Enjoy. Harold J. Piggs was an accountant. He was 43 years old, with a daughter named Margret and a home several miles out from Toronto. It was a Tuesday. Harold awoke to the sound of a seabird, floating through the air. It wibbled and wobbled and cried and cawed. It seemed to him the sound of a very strange flute, or perhaps a whale call. He tensed at the sound. It disturbed his peace. As it drifted away, he relaxed into the covers of his bed. Content. A chill wind drifted across his face and he opened his eyes. There he saw, just across from his bed, just across from his window, perched upon a frond of an old oak, a seagull. He stared at it, but it didn't stare back. He rose from his bed to the sound of snapping joints and cried in pain. He reached quickly for the painkillers on his bedstand. His cat yowled loudly as the seagull flew off, and he jolted, knocking the bottle to the floor. The top snapped off, and the last few pills rolled off under the bed. He gritted his teeth and attempted to bend down to pick them up. A hot pain bolted up his spine, and he brought his back up rigid. He dropped to his knees, leaning forward to reach his hand under the bed. He grasped at the pills, but they were just out of reach. He leaned further. His arms trembled from the pain it caused him, and as he touched the pills, they were knocked further back from his shaking. He smashed a fist onto the ground in frustration and rose upwards, his head slamming against the bed frame. “Fuck!” he swore, tears forming in his eyes as he clutched at the back of his head. “Dad, where did you put my iPhone?” his daughter yelled from downstairs. “Check under the computer desk, you often forget it there!” he shouted back. “I can't hear you!” Harold drew back from under the bed and stood up, breathing heavily. He dressed himself tenderly and left his room to help his daughter. He found her texting her friends in front of a bowl of soggy cereal. “That's going to go bad if you don't eat it,” he said. She didn't respond. Glancing over to the kitchen counter, he saw the stove clock reading 7:44. “Damnit,” he said, rushing to grab his coat and shoes. He found his suitcase by the couch and scraped his papers and work from the table into it. “Oh, I took your iPhone last night since mine was missing,” his daughter said from the table. Harold barely registered it, rushing out the door and into his car. He drove off towards Toronto. Several minutes later he reached the local traffic, backed down the road towards the city. Stopping, he gave himself a moment to calm down and think. “iPhone, my iPhone... my alarm!” he cried. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, and a loud 'Honk' screamed out, to the sound of several more honks and some people shouting about the backup. He felt a sharp pain up his spine, reminding him he hadn't taken his painkillers before leaving. He looked towards the clock, which read 8:00. “Shit, shit, shit...” ⁂ One hundred and thirty kilometres out from Timbucktu, deep in the mesas of the Maroon Desert, two equines shared a drink of Terskish coffee in a tent. “Mm... for crooks and thieves, you people sure know your beverages,” the earth pony said, sipping on his cup. “Hah!” the hefty zebra across from him shouted. He grinned wide, showing two gold teeth to match his earrings and necklaces. “You make me laugh, little yak; we've followed the track, and now here the kettle is hearing the pot, who ought not have the mettle to call the pot black.” The pony scowled. “Don't start with that. I spent years tracking this down, it's my right and my due. You got a problem with that, you can give me my bits back and shove off, you striped cow.” The zebra set down his cup. He leaned his considerable bulk back slowly and stared down at the pony with a stern expression. “There was a time long ago when you called me a friend, and I called you brother, and each to our end would be there for eachother. But that night we met blind in the house of Emirs, that memory has since become faded from years; not a story we've told, our memories cold, our bodies grown old and all that I've heard was the word that this friend of mine split from the herd. While you used to have fire that churned in your soul, your greed ached and yearned till it burned through a hole, and all that was left of that proud little prat was a lonely old rat who would sell out his friends, to meet any ends, just to save his own hat. So excuse my surprise at a break from your lies, but ignoring this question is very unwise.” He leaned in close. “When did this swine grow a spine?” The pony stared back bitterly. “I don't need to listen to this, Jambazi. I came for the coffee, not some tirade about when we were young and naive. It's time to move on, old man. Grow out of the nursery rhymes.” The ground shook, and a booming rumble was heard outside the tent. A mare shouted, “Dr. Caballeron! You'll want to see this!” The pony Caballeron stepped outside, followed by Jambazi. About fifty metres away was a massive, deep red cliffside, a hundred metres tall, stretching far out into the distance. A large cloud of red dust was rolling out from the cliff, where a huge chunk had slipped from the side to the ground, crushing several minotaurs beneath it. The remaining slaves had scrambled away from the cliff, where, as the dust settled, an enormous skeleton was revealed, embedded in the cliffside. “Beautiful,” said Caballeron. Jambazi stared at it in horror, hoping dearly it wasn't what he knew it was. After a long moment he said softly to Caballeron, “You'll find what you spent on the desk in your tent.” “Hm?” Jambazi whistled loudly, and from around the camp, several zebras began rounding up the surviving minotaurs and shackling them in lines. Caballeron stared around in shock. “Wha... Jambazi, what are you doing?” The zebra stared at the skeleton in the cliffside with resolute dread. “You didn't tell me what we'd find in this rock. You'll be paid back in full, but I'll have back each bull. And never, ever again will we talk.” Caballeron watched in horror as his slaves were herded back into lines, and Jambazi's gang prepared to leave. He could scarcely believe his eyes. “Overgrown skunk!” he shouted. “Striped greasebag! Those are my labourers! You... you treasonous hippo!” “Excuse me sir, but what do we do now?” Caballeron looked back at the mare he had forgotten about. He noticed he was shaking and breathed deeply. “Sir?” He stared at the skeleton in anger. “We dig it out ourselves.” “...Sir?” “We only need the eye.” The mare shuffled her hooves nervously. “Um... sir, as a paleontologist I'm sure you already know this, but squid eyes generally don't fossilize. In fact, being made of cartilage, even the skeletal structure of squid shouldn't fossilize well.” Dr. Caballeron rose a hoof to point at the massive head of the skeletal squid. There, like an enormous ball of glass, was a pitch black eye. “I'm an archaeologist, not a paleontologist. I don't know any of that shit. Now help get the scaffolding up, we've only got a week at best to get that thing down.” ⁂ Rushing through the doors of McAndrews Financial, Harold made his way up three flights of stairs and found his cubicle. He sat down at his desk and opened his suitcase. He pulled out several drawings his daughter had made of characters from shows she loved. Mostly cartoons. “Goddamnit!” he shouted. Holding his head in his hands, he gripped at his hair. He heard then, sharp on his ears, the clicking of the director's shoes coming near. “Good morning, Mr. Piggs,” he heard from behind him. Harold tried to turn around, and his back froze. He tried to open his mouth, and he found his teeth grinding eachother unpleasantly. “Have you finished the ledgers for the end of the month?” Harold's eyes glanced towards the drawings on his desk. “I would hope, Mr. Piggs, that if you wanted to pursue a career in cartoons you'd have done it outside of this office. Or at least have been in the office at all.” A thin hand tapped on the small, plastic clock on his desk that read 8:24. “This office opens at 8:00. You've already missed that deadline twice before. We have very strict policies on this, and it makes a poor show if we don't keep our word on them. Three strikes, Piggs. I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave the building.” Harold heard every word exact. He picked up his briefcase, stood and left quietly. The next nine hours were very strange, and very indistinct to him. ⁂ The streets hung arid in the autumn air, strung from the courts of Canterlot in a dusty yellow like the strands of wheat growing dry and thin outside. The sun beat slow across the brows of the ponies in the streets. A fearful quiet crept across the cobble, and save for the court of Open Debate, a hush had made its way into the capital of Equestria. “The Saddle Arabians, who sell us grains, cut ties with us, and a drought appears out of nowhere? That's not coincidence, that's bucking sabotage!” yelled Lady Hackles. Save for the court of Open Debate. “It's absurd to think that our farms can't produce at that kind of level!” said Lady Highmane. “What are the bloody Earth Ponies for? We are easily self-reliant! This is a cheap ploy by the farmers to bleed the hard work of the rest of us out by our bits!” “Are you insane? The Earth Ponies have busted their backs to get every ounce of grain they can from this kind of weather!” screamed Lady Viridian, “And speaking of weather, have you maybe considered the lack of rain might have anything to do with the pegasi who runthe weather?” “For the last time,” shouted lord Vane through gritted teeth, “You can't make rain when there isn't any moisture! This isn't a matter of condensing the evaporated water, the water is gone! Vanished! Skadoosh!” Princess Celestia slowly rose from her seated position at the head of the table, and a lull fell over the nobleponies. She looked around the room with displeasure. “Can you hear that?” she asked. With the ponies silent, the voices of the market outside crept through the open windows. The voices were hushed, and low. “I'm sure you can. The ponies of Equestria,” she said. “They are relying on you to walk out of this room, fully able to make the right decision when you vote on these issues this evening. They are scared, and unsure of what will happen to them. As I am sure is true for many of you. I made the decision to leave the Open Debates non-procedural trusting that you would be willing to yield to one another in your turns, and that trust has largely not been misplaced. I understand you are all afraid, but now is not the time for panic. This is the Equestrian Parliament, and I have complete faith that each and every one of you will do what you think is best for Equestria. I suspect that you may need reminding of that from time to time, but your hearts are in the right place.” She looked across the ponies sternly. “Now settle down, and speak like civilized ponies.” She laid down, and silence filled the room again. Lord Calamus Silver cleared his throat and spoke nervously. “Perhaps, and let it not be said that this is representative of my own view on the subject by any stretch of the imagination, but it has been suggested to me by members of my constituency, who look upon the subject with a different perspective...” “We get the idea, you're a blithering turd. Get on with it,” snarled Lady Hackles. Calamus cleared his throat a second time. “Well then. Princess Celestia, given the absence of rain, the drying of the fields and the lack of moisture to create rain, it has been suggested that perhaps we could make use of the sun to evaporate the ice caps of the Macintosh Hills and create rain over...” “Absolutely not,” said Celestia firmly. “Under no circumstances will those mountains be unfrozen. This decision is final, and all further discussion on that train of action shall be suspended.” The room went deathly quiet, and the harsh tone of the Princess's words rung through the ears of the parliament. A sharp tang floated into the room, and many of the ponies began turning their noses up in disgust. The dryness of the air soon became forgotten in the wake of a sudden chill and the smell of deep rot. A voice rose, slow, drawling and hoarse. “It is, too late now for that,” the voice intoned, “Princess.” The ponies turned to look at the figure that had appeared suddenly at the foot of the table. He wore a dusty grey cloak that covered most of his thin body and face, leaving only a scraggly haired, grey mouth and chin. He swayed as he stood, as if unable to stand straight. “Who the buck are you, then?” asked Hackles. The pony seemed to ignore the question and continued, his voice cracked and wheezing. “A new river in Saddle Arabia flows. The ice is melting, Princess.” The pony stooped over into a coughing fit, and when he rose, his jaw was shaking. “'Ock thast...” He paused, raising a hoof to his chin. He pushed upwards, to a resounding 'thck'. His jaw stopped shaking. “Apologies,” he said, before continuing. “Not fast, but steady. I have,” he paused, sounding bewildered, “No post to station.” Lady Viridian spoke up, “You seem ill. All you alright?” “Who cares if the pony's alright, he certainly isn't alright in the head,” interrupted Hackles, “Who is this geriatric fruitcake?” “He is Captain Zarath,” said Princess Celestia. “Head of the Dusk Watch.” She looked at him tensely. “How do you mean, 'No post left to station?'” ⁂ The door closed quietly behind Harold. He left his coat and shoes at the closet by the door and dropped his suitcase by the kitchen counter. He made himself a light sandwich of cucumber and tomato and sat down at the table to eat it. It was cool, and crisp. He saw his daughter sit down in the living room, on the couch. She turned on the television. “Hey Dad.” She changed the channel, and music started playing. It was some of that electronic stuff she had gotten into lately. He noticed himself staring at her. It hurt too much to see his wife in her, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. His mind wouldn't let him turn away. It ached with loss, and he could feel his grief building deep in his throat, choking him. “Peggie,” he started. “Don't call me that,” she said, angry. “It's a stupid name.” “Margret,” he called. She humphed in annoyance. “Why don't you take your friends out to the movies?” She got up and walked towards the kitchen. “We just went to see something last weekend, why...” she scrunched up her nose, “Oh god, are you drunk?” “No.” Harold's back throbbed with a dull pain. “Yes you are, you're fucking drunk! What, did Melissa turn you down again or something?” “No, she didn't.” “Yes she did. Don't lie to me like that.” “I just told you she didn't, go watch your fucking cartoons already.” “Yeah, you tell 'em, big, tough man. At least I can get a date and don't whine all day about my horrible fucking back.” “I have a slipped disc.” “You have a slipped life, fucktard. You're a shiny turd of mediocrity with delusions of adequacy. Fifteen years at the same damn company without a raise and you come home drunk out of your fucking mind and tell me to fuck off with my fucking friends. Well fuck you too, Mr. Big and tall, fuck you and your half-assed excuse of a life. At least your drunk-ass wife didn't lie to my face.” Harold hit her. She stood there a moment, tears welling up in her eyes, and rushed to her room. Harold collapsed backwards, missing his seat and dropping to the floor. A well of pain shot across his back, and he shook with tears. His sandwich fell apart across the floor. He closed his eyes and tried to will his daughter's face to leave his mind. It stung him. His mouth trembled at the thought, and most of all, he hurt at the expression she held. No anger. No fear. Confusion. His mind was dull, and his thoughts were incoherent. He just wanted to leave the house and run. His vision blurred, and his tears drifted him off to sleep. When he woke, he felt himself on a cushioned bed, with the most incredible sensation of floating. The bed fell fast and numb into the emptiness. At once comforted with the closeness of the cushions and terrified of the empty void he flew into. He was jolted awake when the car scraped over a large rock. The screech of metal on stone was heard, and Harold panicked. He didn't see the horse, but he felt the thud. His head flew forward, snapping back on the expanding airbag as something white cracked on the window. The glass broke from the seal. He had barely the time to realize the strange red pulp was his legs being crushed before passing out.
Prologue (pt. 2)SIX YEARS HENCE ⁂ Harold woke to the smell of anaesthetic, the steady tones of a heart monitor, and the sound of pressurized air. His eyes flickered open, but were met with a blurred grey. His thoughts were dim. Slowly, as if weighted, he attempted memory. His mind flashed with colours and stung with sounds. No completed thoughts found their way to him. He lay still, and silent, as colour slowly filled his vision. Then shapes and textures. He saw, above him, soft florescent lights on a white ceiling. He knew this place. A minute later, he realized he was in a hospital, and he thought of Margret. It was another half hour still when a nurse came to check on him. “Mmr Pksfll!” she said, surprised. “Dttr mmfffls rrhnaa.” He glanced towards her and felt exhaustion. His eyes floated to the ceiling, and he rested them. He wanted to close them, but something ached in his chest, almost desperately telling him to stay awake. He needed. But he didn't know what. He waited. A doctor strode through the door. He spoke firmly, but slow and calm. “Do you know your name?” The words came to him clearly, but the meaning was harder to find. It took a few seconds for his thoughts to form, and he gave a slow nod. “What is your name?” He didn't move. He wanted to speak; his lips quivered, but he couldn't find the words. The doctor's voice came in slow and steady. “Try to remain calm.” He felt stress rise up through his throat and he swallowed. He was deeply confused. His breath caught, and he slowly relaxed into his bed. His voice was high and muffled. “Harold,” he paused, “Joseph Piggs.” ⁂ A strange creature ran in the night. It smashed through branches, swaying and bumping It's strange, bloated figure through the forest. Ponies followed It. Outside of the occasional shout, they were silent. They were focused and relentless, following the broken path It made as closely as possible. Soon they came to an enormous, fast-flowing river, where the creature was trying to haul itself to a large, rocky island with a small cottage. The ponies jumped in after It, and as It grasped at the shore, It's hooves slipped on the rock, and It fell into the river. It flailed, as It's bloated body made It unable to keep It's head above water and was pulled down. The ponies caught up and between six of them began to pull at It. It shook in panic, turning and squirming to get away, until one of the ponies hit It twice over the head with a large baton. A voice spoke from the island, “Oh no, now that won't do at all. Dear me. Very unseemly.” The water around the island began to tremble, and, as the ponies stared on in shock, the island rose from the middle of the river, the water pushing away from it and sweeping them downstream in a massive torrent. As they struggled to stay afloat, back where they were forced from they saw an enormous crab, with trees and a cottage atop it, dangling It in a massive, rocky claw. From atop the crab, an elderly stallion stood staring down at the unconscious creature with a disapproving glare. “Not good at all. You need a right proper cleaning, that's what.” ⁂ Harold spent most of his time trying to accomplish simple things. Eating healthy amounts of food. Walking more than ten feet. Understanding full sentences. He sometimes put things in his mouth without thinking, or had difficulty with speech and movement. He hadn't realized his life wasn't his until the third week had passed. He remembered well what happened to his own father, when he was struck by disease in his time. He had first stopped playing badminton. Then he had difficulty eating certain foods. And soon the loud, argumentative man had been reduced to little more than a heartbreakingly sincere thanks for the help he received in using the washroom. Harold hadn't thought much of his father at all since he died. But having felt such an incredible sense of freedom at having his catheter removed made him wilt in shame when, for the first time in twenty years, his voice reminded him so strongly of a man who had lost all care for pride. Harold didn't want to lose his pride. And that scared him most of all, because he knew that it was his pride that had made his father who he was. He didn't want to be his father, not after, not before his disease. But he was afraid that he had already become him. He couldn't become that man. His daughter had to know he would never be that man. He waited until his doctor arrived. She walked through the door with a clipboard and a smile. “Good afternoon, Harold. Are you feeling alright?” “I'd like to talk to my daughter,” said Harold. Dr. Kilroy paused. She sighed, then spoke. “When you first woke up, we went through the procedures of contacting your known relatives. There were very few. Your mother suffered a serious heart attack and passed away some years ago.” “How,” Harold paused. “How many years ago?” Dr. Kilroy set down the clipboard. “As the doctor of a recovering coma patient, it is required that talk of the date is restricted until the patient has first largely recovered their mental faculties and is in a rational state of mind. As your doctor I can officially say I think you've recovered to that point. I do need your consent to mention it, though.” “Please,” said Harold. “Your mother passed away four years ago, two years after your entry to Toronto General Hospital.” Harold was shocked at the times given, and was saddened by the news of his mother's death. He nearly forgot why he asked. “And my daughter?” “Your daughter declined to see you.” Harold blinked. He felt very, very strange. Like something slipped deep in his chest. He felt thin and tight. “I see.” “If you'd like, we can try to contact her again.” The doctor seemed genuinely concerned. “It's been a few months.” “No, that's quite alright,” said Harold. He leaned back into his bed. “I think I'd like to be alone right now.” ⁂ It woke to the sound of boiling water and the smell of freshly baked bread. It was lying in a soft bed, wrapped in a thick, warm patchwork quilt. The room was very small, with only space enough for the bed, tucked into a corner, with a bedstand at its foot and a bookcase beside the door to its right. The walls were made of thick, gnarled wood, and a window above the headrest was letting a little light in through a set of excessively jolly flower print curtains. It stood from the bed and felt the world shift back and forth slowly, as if It was on a boat, or in a rocking chair. It looked out the window and saw several squid swimming through the air, being chased by a black cat running after them. The cat leaped through the air, catching one of the squid, which promptly exploded. 'Oh,' It thought, 'A dream.' It was scared by this. It did not enjoy It's dreams. They were cold, and scary. It did not want to find out what about this dream would be cold and scary, so it crawled back into the bed and under the covers and waited to wake up. It ignored the sounds and smells beyond the door. *ggrrrwlwl* It tried very hard to ignore the smells beyond the door. It's stomach tried especially hard. *bbrrblwl* It decided the bedsheets were possibly dangerous, as this was a dream, and they might swallow It up like a fresh loaf of bread. It left the evil bed, creeping closer to the door and the smell of a fresh loaf of bread. It opened the door slowly. Through the crack, It could see a counter, with a stove and a sink, and in between It's doorway and the counter, a small table, just big enough for the two sets of a plate and cutlery on it. Set in the middle of the table was a fresh loaf of bread. It stuck It's head out and looked to either side for anyone else. Nopony was around, so It hobbled over to the table and laid down. It snatched up the bread and began eating as fast as possible. The bread was warm, and soft, with a taste of something flavourful It couldn't recognize. It was magnificent. Once It had finished the entire loaf, It's stomach felt nice and full. It was a very strange feeling, one that It was determined to enjoy for as long as possible before waking up. “I see you've woken up. I hope your bed wasn't uncomfortable; I only have the one, I'm afraid.” It froze up in fear, hearing the elderly stallion walking closer. It curled up to seem small, and unimportant. “Strange. I could've sworn I made a cinnamon loaf this morning. Do excuse me, I've been quite a poor host, not making breakfast; it seems I'm a little more on in my years than I thought. You wait right here, I'll be back with something to eat.” It heard a few clanks, and the stallion left the room. After several moments It uncurled. A teapot, two saucers and two cups had been left on the table. The tea smelled very nice. It heard hoofsteps approaching and curled up again. “Well. It seems I haven't thought this through at all. I can't even fit this all on the table, it's simply too small. That's alright, we'll just leave the teapot on the floor when we aren't using it.” It heard several more clanks and hoped desperately the stallion wouldn't take too long eating his breakfast before going away. “Mmfh. Uegh. Well. Seems I completely overdid the toast. Sorry, dear, I'm rubbish at cooking. I knew a mare once who made the most fantastic brioche au fromage, picked me right up in the mornings. Ah, but that was long ago in Prance. Couldn't stay, you understand, never managed to pick up the language. Kept thinking the chefs wanted to kill me when they asked if I had found the huile d'olive.” The stallion seemed to pause in speaking. “Don't know any Prench, eh? Don't worry about it, it was a pretty bad joke anyways. Would you like some tea? I understand if you don't want the toast, I'm sure I have some muffins or a baguette lying around somewhere.” The stallion paused. “Well. I suppose you are rather exhausted. Some stoicism is understandable. But, if I may be so frank my dear, you are being perhaps a little rude.” The stallion looked at It closely. “That isn't good for your back, you know. Ponies aren't armadillos.” It did not know what an armadillo was, but didn't really want to find out. It wanted this dream to end. It did not like waiting for the cold and scary to find it. It did not want to see this stallion. It very much did not want him to see It. “Stop that at once. I went through the effort of pulling you out of that river, soggy and cold, dried you down and gave you a bed for the night. And while my breakfasts might not be the finest this side of Equestria, I at least deserve the courtesy of seeing you face to face.” It did not like that idea at all, and It curled up tighter, turning away from the voice of the stallion. “Very well, then.” The stallion stood, walked around the table to face It, and sat down again. “I shall simply have to imagine. You are a beautiful mare, with big brown eyes. You have soft fur, and your muzzle comes down to a cute little nose. Now, in the meantime, I shall enjoy my view of your luscious face while I drink my tea.” It heard loud slurping from directly in front of It. After a minute of this, It became very suspicious of this dream, and how real it seemed, and how long it had gone on. Slowly, carefully, It uncurled, looking at the stallion in front of It. He was a light blue pegasus with blue-green eyes and a long mane, white with age. He was very small, but his confidant posture and lean body made up for this somewhat. It noticed his left wing was crooked and wondered if he could fly or not. As It looked to him slurping his tea, he looked back at It. He saw a young earth pony mare, although it was honestly hard to tell. Her body was bloated, and her legs were of different lengths. She had a tattered grey-green coat and a yellow mane, which swelled at a large lump on her back. Her jaw wasn't straight with her face and was tilted open, showing several overgrown teeth. She had brown eyes, one of which was smaller and partially covered by a large growth that distended the left side of her brow and face. They were deep and sad with years she shouldn't have had. The old stallion, without an ounce of sarcasm, spoke softly, “As I said. A beautiful, brown eyed mare.” She stared at him and cried. ⁂ “Harold?” his doctor asked. “I've brought Dr. Steiner to see you.” A large, bearded man stepped through the door. Harold greeted him. “Hello, Dr. Steiner.” “Hello, Harold.” Dr. Steiner sat in a chair by the door. He nodded to Dr. Kilroy, who left the two alone, closing the door behind him. The room was very quiet. “How are you today, Harold?” “I'm good, thanks.” “Will you take a seat?” said Dr. Steiner, gesturing to the bed across from him. Harold sat down. Dr. Steiner took out a small, brown notebook and flipped several pages. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” “I have, yes.” “Mm-hm. Good, good. I heard you visited the senior's home yesterday. Quite the adventure. Did you make any new friends?” “Mr. Tony was very nice.” “Wonderful.” Harold didn't think so. He didn't think so at all. He felt small, and unimportant. Dr. Steiner adjusted his seat. “I'm going to ask you a few questions now about what happened to you. I want to find out how you feel. Is that alright with you?” “Yes.” “Alright. I want to recall what happened the night you crashed. Take as much time as you feel you need, there's no rush.” He had hit his little girl. He hit her and went driving. He hadn't known what to think, or what to do. He simply left. He drove away. Harold's mouth started moving in a very strange way. “Are you alright, Harold?” asked Dr. Steiner. Harold felt like everything had gone horribly wrong. “I'm not a child.” “I'm sorry. What do you mean?” Harold was hurt. “Fuck you. There's nothing to say. I'm not a child. I don't need help to chew my food. I don't need someone to come with me to the bathroom. I don't need someone telling me what decisions I should make. I don't need you telling me how wonderful it is that someone gave me a second glance at some crusty sack of senior citizens.” Harold's heart beat hard in his chest. He felt strained. He sunk into his seat on the bed and felt empty. The doctor slowly set down the notebook on his lap. “I'd think there's quite a lot to say.” Harold had a headache. He felt so much like he was right. He knew he wasn't. He sometimes couldn't eat his food. He often couldn't walk. And more than ever he was far from able to make his own decisions. It hurt him very much to know that. He felt lonely and anxious. And still he remembered. Somewhere, far drifted from the highway, he swerved and crashed into a large, white horse. He felt the briefest sense of vertigo as his body flew towards the expanding airbags from the unbuckled seat. He fell unconscious. And left his only daughter alone. Without a mother or a father. He hadn't even introduced her to his own parents. Who would take care of her? Who would feed her and clothe her? “Harold?” He looked over towards the doctor, blinking. “I can see you've a lot of things to think over. I'll give you some time to collect yourself. A nurse should be by in a half-hour to check on you; if you need anything, just let them know.” Harold nodded slowly. He lay back on the bed, relaxed, and the world faded away. ⁂ Harold was on a bed, falling. He remembered this. He had fallen asleep in the car. He did not enjoy the feeling at all. The inky sky above him felt cold and filled with fear. He thought sometimes he saw things moving in the blackness, but he couldn't tell. Then something moved in the blackness. A small fuzz of dark blue was barely distinguishable. It seemed slow at first, but he quickly realized it was only very far away. He felt scared. It drew closer, and as it did, it began forming into a distinct shape. An enormous horse, dark as midnight, with a cloak of stars trailing behind it, growing larger with every breath he gulped. His fear grew, and he felt an unbearable pressure, as if he was being pressed into his bed. He stared into its eyes. Harold was a man who believed that the world was complex and impossible to understand. He was not very imaginative, and he tried his best not to be. He felt very much that his limited descriptive tools were woefully inadequate then. He felt as if, were an ant atop an elephant, and the elephant atop the tallest mountain, upon the greatest continent on a massive planet within a distant galaxy being drawn into an endless swirling singularity, he would have been a small piece of leaf the ant had eaten for lunch that day. And the universe the rage inside those eyes. He clutched his sheets with aching hands. And woke suddenly. He was falling, on a bed. The stars were strewn above him, and the wind whistled sharply across his body, his sheets flying off the bed, floating away above him. The stars were a beautiful and brilliant sight, more numerous than he had ever seen before, swirling elegantly through the peaceful night sky, framing the massive and delicate moon. He had barely the time to realize the body the wind flew across was not his own before the bed hit the ground. It smashed to pieces, and a familiar agony jumped through his new and strange body. As he lay there, his muzzle cracked open on the bedside, he saw a seagull glide down onto his chest. It waddled up to his face and stared down at him with coal black cavities where its eyes would have been. It seemed to judge him sharply. “Good enough, about,” it said. It cocked its head once and flew off into the night sky. Harold lay there for a moment, still, and in pain. He screamed and choked on his blood. Harold passed out.
Chapter 1Princess Luna was engaging in Spring Cleaning. She had just been introduced to the concept by her new maid and was fascinated by the idea. The mayor of Ponyville had her old things sent up from the Castle of the Two Sisters just the other day, and she'd been looking forward to digging through them. She squealed with excitement. She opened her closet and levitated out a large box. She started pulling things out at random. “Ooh! Our old cloak. We missed this dearly.” It was a deep purple, with soft silk and silver trimmings soft silk. She gasped, “Sir Limbly!” She hugged a large, white, wool spider. “We thought thee lost amongst the wreckage. 'Tis a joyous day indeed! We wonder what other marvels art hidden here.” Levitating some objects from the box she noticed a slip of paper stuck between a chessboard and an old candlestick. Curious, she pulled it out. It was a letter addressed to her, from a few years before her banishment. She thanked the preservation spells Celestia cast to protect the castle after it was abandoned and opened it up. It was a poem titled 'A Starlit Moon'. Luna froze. She swallowed the emotions that rose up without warning and set the letter delicately on her bedside drawer. She didn't want to have to read that right now. She grabbed Limbly and left the room for breakfast. 'What an awful way to start a day,' she thought. ⁂ Harold woke to the smell of anesthetic and the steady tones of a heart monitor. He felt sore, but strangely fresh. He rose his forehooves to his face. They were a chestnut brown. He noted they were also shaking rather violently. He set them down and stared at the ceiling. He was hurt and confused, and he felt deeply, deeply alone. He felt a looming presence from deep in his mind, and slowly, but with enormous weight, something became very clear to him. Those eyes that he saw, that held within them the raw emotion of an eternity, those eyes had come to him in the night, held hard upon the face of a midnight blue horse, stripped him bare and birthed him anew. The eyes of God. He did not want to think about that. He did not want to think about anything. He counted the tiles in the ceiling. He heard a creaking noise from his left and looked to see what it was. There, in the bed a few feet from him, was a lime-green horse, wrapped in casts covering its front legs, with bandages over its eyes and mouth. It had a tube leading to its stomach from what looked like a large IV bag. The horse was on its side and seemed to be staring at him. He wondered how it managed that through the bandages. Harold looked back at the ceiling. Twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty-four... A very deep, droning voice spoke from the direction of the bandaged horse, “To end the thaw you must kill the host atop the mountain of Gurkron. She will be there. You have one year to do so.” Harold slowly turned to look at the bandaged horse in stupor. “You must be cautious, you must be careful. Tell no one. Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.” Harold stared on in sheer loathing. “Fucking hell you pile of god-blasted bandages, I fall a thousand feet out of the sky on a bed, broke like a twig on my family tree waiting to bleed out by the gallon, when I wake up again in this infernal hospital bed, so I can hear you tell me to murder some woman on a mountaintop and quote fucking Euripides! Why? Why!?” Or so Harold tried to answer. Flailing wildly in his bed, the words sounded much more like a very long, very angry whinny. His hooves caught on his sheets, and he fell out of the bed with a 'thump'. “I shall give you speech and understanding so that you may accomplish your mission.” Harold felt a strange shudder, like cold water flowing down his scalp. Harold's muffled voice came from under the tangled ball of sheets in a strange language of neighs, whinnies and nickers, “This doesn't make any sense! You don't make any sense! Farce! Foolishness! Sweet bloody applesauce, you god-forsaken horse!” After a moment of struggling, he broke free from his prison and tried to stand. He couldn't keep his balance, and he fell to the floor, crying in exasperation. He dragged himself to the bed beside his own and held himself up his forelegs awkwardly, staring down at the bandaged horse in unadulterated rage. The horse was snoring. Harold trembled. His vision blurred; his face went hot and he clenched his strange, new teeth tightly. He reached a shaking hoof up to strike to horse as hard as he could... And saw the face of his daughter, sleeping. He scrambled backwards in panic, hyperventilating. His back hit up against the bed, and he laid there, beside the bed. He cried, choking and hiccuping. His mind reached into the void for hope, and there staring back was the memory of those angry eyes. He brought his shaking hooves together in front of him. He never really used to do this, and it didn't look quite right, but he hoped God wouldn't mind. “I am sorry, Lord,” he sobbed. “I have failed you. I am a disappointment. I am sorry for not praying to you. I am sorry for not thanking you. I am sorry for not showing up to church enough. I am sorry,” he choked, “I am sorry for driving my wife away. I am sorry for hitting my daughter. I am sorry for not donating to the Salvation Army. I'm sorry I made fun of Ms. Bujold's hair so much and for not recycling. I'm sorry for using the handicapped parking spaces, I'm sorry I stole ink from the office, and I'm sorry I never made my bed at the hospital...” “That's alright, I don't mind.” Harold jolted at the voice answering him. A yellow horse with a pale blue mane entered the room, carrying a tray with several cups and needles. It had a hairnet and a nurse's hat and seemed to have a mellow, easy-going look on its face, which seemed to Harold very strange on a creature so similar to a horse. “We're happy to fix those. It's our job to take of you, after all, not the other way around. Oh!” She stared down at him, surprised. He was sitting awkwardly against the bed, half-wrapped in sheets, his eyes red and sore from crying. “Bad dream?” Harold suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Yes. A very bad dream.” “Ah,” she said. “Shame. You're the stallion they just brought in for the botched teleport, aren't you?” “What?” “Well, I mean, we assumed it was a teleport. They found you in a broken bed out in the fields. Can't think of too many other ways you'd have ended up like that.” She walked over to the bandaged horse across from him and set down the tray. “Oh. Yes, that's,” he paused, “pretty much what happened.” He watched as the nurse walked over to the other patient and set her tray on the bed. She picked up one of the needles and began injecting it into a small port on the large plastic bag hung next to him. “So, what happened to him?” “Poor thing had his entire torso burnt in a fire last week. He hasn't been able to see or eat since.” She sighed. “It's quite tragic, but he's looking to be able to walk by the end of the month.” She put the needle away and picked up the tray. “He'll probably never be able to speak again.” “I see.” “Still, he seems to be dealing with it pretty well. His family's been very supportive, you know. Um, are you okay down there?” Harold looked down at himself and the mess of sheets and legs he found himself in. “I,” Harold considered what to say carefully, “...had some trouble trying to walk earlier. My legs don't seem to be working like they used to.” The nurse set down the tray and walked over to help him up. “Oh, that's perfectly normal. Probably just stiff muscles from the healing. Try not to move too quickly, it might take some getting used to.” Harold slowly managed to get his feet under him properly, swaying a little trying to stay up. “I think you're right there.” She stared down at his flank. “Oh, that's an interesting one. What do you do, then?” Harold stared over at his own flank. There, printed into the brown fur was a gold-yellow coin, with a rough image of a loon on it. It was a simplified Canadian loonie. He glanced over to her flank, where there was an image of a white cross with four small hearts. He gave the answer he was used to giving. “I'm an accountant.” “Guess that makes sense. Snowheart, by the way,” she said. “And you are...” she stared at the loonie with an intense expression. “I'm...” “Wait! Wait, don't tell me. Lemme guess,” she hummed to herself, while Harold felt embarrassed at her stares. Given the relief he felt from at least some kind of normal conversation, though, he did his best to ignore it. “That's a loon, and you're an accountant. I'm going with Loonsworth,” she said. “...Sure,” he said. She stared at him with her mouth gaping. “No way! Really?” “Yes, really,” he said. “Wow. That's...” she took on the embarrassed look he had moments ago. “...Pretty suckish, actually.” She reached a hoof up to her mouth, looking anxious and ashamed. “Oh geeze. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just such an awful name.” She looked panicked and hid her face behind her hoof. “...Don't look at me. I'll just shut up now.” Harold suddenly felt incredibly guilty for agreeing with her like that. “It's fine, it is a terrible name. That's why... my friends call me Loonie.” “I, uh, should probably get back to the other patients,” she said, awkwardly, turning to leave. “Oh! Uh, before I leave,” she said, turning around, “Since we have your name, and the doctor checked you out as being fixed up, you can feel free to leave whenever you want.” She turned again and left. Harold wasn't sure what to think, or do. He had felt quite nice when he wasn't doing anything at all earlier, but that last few times he tried that he found himself falling into things with voices speaking to him. He'd just woken up, attempted homicide, prayed to God for the first time in decades and had an awkward chat about his made-up name with a blue horse, all in the span of a few minutes. He decided to leave the hospital. The idea scared and excited him. He hadn't left the hospital in months. Or years, apparently. But this was a new hospital. 'Loonsworth, eh?' Well, anything was better than Harold Piggs, he thought. He stepped forward. And promptly fell on his face. 'This may take some learning,' he thought. ⁂ Luna rushed into the dining hall, Sir Limbly floating just ahead of her. “Tia! Tia, see what we have uncovered...” She stopped. The long dining table had many ponies laying at it, staring at her. At the head of the table laid Princess Celestia, paused in eating a plate of toast and salad, the only food on the table. Celestia set down a slice of bread. “Sister. It is good to see you.” She glanced at the object. “Is that your old stuffed spider?” Luna nodded hesitantly. “We were,” she paused, “unaware the crown was hosting guests this morning.” Some mutterings crept from the table of ponies. Celestia spoke up, “It has become custom for the subordinate elective monarchy to go over first readings and discussions of bills of the day during the royal breakfast. It saves time, leaving the afternoon free for debate.” Luna shuffled her hooves. Celestia indicated towards the end of the table. “Would you like to join us?” “That's quite alright, thank you. We shall be in our room should anypony need us.” Luna left the room, closing the doors behind her. Once they were shut, she tucked Sir Limbly in close and walked back to her room. ⁂ “Now then. We were discussing the South Canterlot Public Grazing Bill, proposed by Lady Viridian. Lord Calamus Silver has the floor,” said Celestia. A grey pegasus stood. “In reluctant deference to the comment made earlier by Lady Hackles that the proposed bill is 'cattle excrement',” “Bullshit. I said it was bullshit.” “Her statement did have a kernel of truth in it, and although I would not go so far as to say it would lead to 'the destitution of our entire society', the visual state of the central road to Canterlot is a vital factor in the sustainability of the Canterlot tourist industry, which in turn is the central economic force of the city as a whole. While the south field is of a healthier crop, the east field is of an at least comparable quality” The pegasus laid down, and an earth pony raised her hoof. “Lady Viridian has the floor,” said Celestia. She rose to speak. “That kind of view is heartless and callous and is exactly why we have the problems that require us to pass this kind of bill. Forcing the impoverished to march halfway down the side of a mountain for a meal they need to live is entirely obscene.” “See, this is what you get. When you buy your bills in bulk, you get big buckets of bullshit.” “Thank you for that elegant and deeply relevant piece of poetry, Hackles,” said Calamus. “That's why I'm here.” Calamus sighed. “As important as your concerns are, Lady Viridian, it would be best if you saved your views for the Open Debate and focused on the points of the bill itself,” he said. “It's just something that needed to be said,” she responded. Hackles farted loudly. “Sorry everypony, I just had to pull that particular piece of inspired commentary out of my ass. Felt it was appropriate given the other comments pulled out of asses this morning.” Celestia sighed and continued munching on her toast. She really wished Luna had stayed for breakfast. She would have had some interesting things to say, certainly. ⁂ Applejack was selling some apple pie in the market square, a place whose name always seemed a mite silly to Applejack, given it was circular. She saw a pink blur rushing through the marketplace, towards her stand. “Mornin' there, Pinkie,” she said. Pinkie Pie rushed on past, and Applejack humphed. “T'aint got the time ta say hello, eh? I guess there's somethin' that got her busy.” Pinkie rushed back to the pie stall. “Hey, I always have time for friends!” she said indignantly. “Ah don' mean it like that, Pinkie. Ah was just wonderin' what has you so up in a tizzy,” said Applejack. “Oh, there's somepony new in town, but he's stuck in the hospital, so I'm getting his 'Glad-You're-Better-And-Out-Of-The-Hospital-So-You-Can-Be-At-Your-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Party' ready. It's going to be at the Brown farm. Oh!” she gasped, “I almost forgot! Here's your invitation.” She hand Applejack a letter. Applejack frowned. “Why's it gonna be there?” she asked. “Oh, Brown heard the new pony's an accountant, and he's been needing one, so he's hoping to hire him. I know you do all that fancy-shmancy stuff yourself at the Apple farm, but Brown never learned any of that, so he needs somepony to do it for him,” she said. “Ah see.” Pinkie squinted at Applejack suspiciously. “You aren't going to make a scene at somepony's Welcome Party, are you Applejack?” “'Course not,” said Applejack. “Ah woulda rather'd it done somewhere else, but Ah don't got much of a right telling him not ta host it if he's willing. Ah can bite the billet fer the night, Pinkie, don't you worry about me.” Pinkie Pie squinted for a bit, then smiled wide. “I trust you, Applejack.” “'Course you do. Now git moving girl, you got work ta do.” “Yes ma'am!” Pinkie ran off to the Brown farm, at the edge of town. Applejack watched her go, tentatively. “Ah just hope he can do the same.” ⁂ “Moving on,” said Celestia. She levitated a short stack of sheets in front of her. “Bill 'C-571' as proposed by Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia.” The room filled with quiet chatter, thick with anticipation. It had been sixty years since the last bill Celestia proposed, and another eighty before that. “To amend the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act, to reestablish the Equestrian Diarchy, and to allow for the eventual repurposing of the Equestrian Parliament. “Her Most Empyrean Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Parliament of Equestria, enacts as follows: “1. This bill may be cited as the 'Bill of Equestrian Reestablishment'. “2. The following definitions apply in this act, with otherwise conflicting established definitions notwithstanding: “'Princess' meaning the highest rank of authority, including Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia and Her Most Astral Majesty Princess Luna, with all other holders of the title being superficial and not applicable within Equestrian Legislature. “3. Sections 1 through 5 of the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act are replaced by the following: “1. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, each Princess shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill, and no bill shall be so enacted without the approval of each Princess. “2. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, the Subordinate Elective Monarchy shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill. “3. Sections 6 through 12 of the Act are repealed. “Bill ends here.” The room fell deathly silent. It was void of sound, save for the chatter of the market and the soft pattering of the paper Celestia was now setting back on the table. The anticipation of earlier had been replaced with a grim tension, tight in the air, and an unease uncomfortably lain on the ponies there. Celestia waited. “Then if there are no comments, moving on...” A pony tentatively raised a hoof. “Lord Patterspiel has the floor.” He stood slowly, and he stayed silent for a few seconds. “For the purpose of clarification,” he began slowly, “the proposed bill would effectively be the dissolution of the Equestrian Parliament.” Hackles held her head in her hoof, speaking quietly, and bitterly, “Of course that's what it means you, you...” She inhaled deeply. “Celestia's sweet fanny acres, I need a drink,” she said. She stood, turning and leaving the room. Celestia looked a bit flustered at the comment, but answered Patterspiel, “Not at all. The Equestrian Parliament would remain supported by state taxes and continue its role as an advisory council.” Patterspiel laid down again, and the room was silent again. “Then if there are no further comments, moving on... ” ⁂ Harold managed to hobble his way to the hospital doors. The journey, though short, was very surreal to him. Strangely coloured unicorns in doctor's outfits would occasionally pass him in the hall, and in the main hall was a green horse reading a magazine behind a desk. He made to leave. “We need you to sign a release form before you leave,” the horse said. He walked awkwardly back over to the desk, where she was still reading her magazine, her hoof outstretched with a pencil in it. Harold reached out a hoof and made to pick it up. He knocked the pencil to the ground. The mare looked away from her magazine to stare at the pencil on the ground. She glanced up at Harold. “Well?” Harold poked at the pencil with his hoof, and it rolled around the floor. The mare looked annoyed, and she muttered something probably quite rude about brain damage. “You pick it up. With your mouth.” Harold looked surprised, and a little disgusted. “Off the floor?” She rolled her eyes. “That's where it is, isn't it?” Hesitantly, he bent down and picked it up in his mouth. “Now sign here,” she said, pointing at a line at the bottom of a form. Harold leaned forward, the pencil in his mouth, and he slowly scratched out 'Loonsworth.' Something seemed strange about what he'd written, besides its legibility. A moment later he realized it was that he'd written it in another alphabet. The mare picked it up, looked at it and raised an eyebrow. “Close enough. You can go,” she said, going back to her reading. Loonsworth carefully walked to the doors of the hospital and opened them. “Hi!” the grinning pink pony said. Loonsworth lost his footing for the third time that day. ⁂ Calamus closed the door quietly behind him and walked to his lounge. His wife was reading a book there. He pulled a copy of 'Don Rocinante' from the bookshelves, poured himself a glass of bourbon from the wine cabinet and laid beside his wife Tender. She nuzzled him gently. “Good afternoon, Calamus.” “Good afternoon, dear.” They laid there reading for a few minutes, when Tender spoke up. “Is there something the matter, Calamus?” “Whatever do you mean?” he said, continuing to read his book. “You're tense,” she said. “Did Lord Sideburn persuade the council to vote against your public libraries again?” “Not at all,” he said. “Nothing so pedestrian. Celestia proposed a new bill.” “Oh? Curious. What was it?” “She wishes to revoke the power of the Equestrian Parliament and establish Princess Luna as a ruling Diarch.” Tender set her book down and stared at her husband in shock. “That mare hasn't been in the modern world for a week,” she said. “I very much suspect she doesn't know the first thing about running this country, even if we were to ignore the risk of another episode with Nightmare Moon.” “I suppose we'll just have to pray she knows what she's doing,” said Calamus. “She did run the country for quite a number of centuries with Celestia; one would hope it is just a matter of oiling up the old gears.” Tender hummed and hawed. “The bill will be voted on next week, yes?” “Yes.” “Well then,” she said, sounding pleased. “That's plenty of time to persuade the council to vote against it.” He choked on his bourbon, and he spoke hoarsely, “You don't seem to quite understand, dear; Celestia doesn't often propose bills. She enacts one of her own maybe twice in a century.” Tender was annoyed. “So?” “The Equestrian Parliament doesn't refuse Celestia's bills, Tender. It never has. Not once, not ever in a thousand years, not with a single vote against.” “But you could, couldn't you?” “In theory we could, but the chances of it actually happening are so astronomically...” “You could do it, though.” He stood silent for a moment. “Yes. We could.”
Chapter 2An elderly pegasus was sitting outside his cottage, enjoying a book. Willow was not sure quite what to make of this pegasus. It was absolutely astounding how quickly Willow had become used to him being around over the last two days, and now Willow was confused, but comfortable in the life Willow was enjoying. He had introduced himself as Galloway Whorlseley earlier, though Willow thought that was a rather long and silly name, and so preferred to think of him as Gerry. And Gerry was being very annoying. “Now that is rather distracting, Willow. I'm trying to enjoy a good book. While I appreciate you wanting to spend your time around me, there's simply no reason to stay nudged up against me like that. We had a splendid hug earlier, and that's all well and good, now do please give me some personal space now and again.” Willow thought he was being quite selfish, hogging himself like that. But Willow had little right to complain, especially after he had been kind enough to give Willow such a nice name. It was very strange for Willow to adapt, since Willow had so long been used to 'It'. It was made a little easier once he explained it was for the colour of Willow's coat, and because 'You rather act like one'. Willow quite liked being thought of as a tree; trees were strong, sturdy things, that smelled nice. Willow quickly smelled itself. “You shouldn't go about smelling yourself like that, Willow, it makes you look like a dog. Quite unbecoming of a lady.” Willow's nose wrinkled at the smell. It was very un-treelike. Whorlseley sighed, “Oh Willow, what am I to do with you?” He set down the book, and stood up to stare at her. “You won't speak to me, I don't know where you're from, or by whom you were being chased, and least of all do I know why you have such a singular physiology.” He frowned. “But I do know you need a bath.” ⁂ Luna lay in her bed, her hoofservent standing at the door, in case she was needed. Another day, the thick, soft sheets might have given her comfort, but today she found it hard to enjoy them. The world around her was strange and different. She saw public schools where there were once temples in her and Celestia's honour, and standardized housing where the poor district used to swell with sties and hovels in lower Canterlot. Celestia had built public hospitals to aid the diseased and the injured, and absolutely everything seemed more cramped and tight, the city filled with more ponies then ever before. Even the houses of the aristocrats were now smaller and taller, the old mansions of the upper side long since retrofitted into public libraries. 'Public libraries!' The very idea of public libraries shocked her immensely. That the government was actually paying to teach every single pony to read and write and paying to house and provide collections of information for them all seemed absurd. She'd heard they were even hiring ponies to teach arithmetic. It was a ludicrous waste of funds. At least it had been a thousand years ago. Now she thought she knew almost nothing of what was right to do. It seemed in her absence her ponies had flourished. “Hoofwright?” “Yes, your grace?” “Art we,” Luna held her words to her tongue. They felt very strange, and ungainly. “...A good mare?” “...Of course, your grace.” “Thou hesitateth,” she said, inquiringly. “No, I,” the young mare stumbled, “I mean no disrespect, your grace, it was simply an unexpected question.” Luna felt her heart drop. She spoke softly, “...Thou art afraid of us.” “No!” the mare exclaimed. “I would never presume to be afraid of you,” she said, with a hastily added “Your grace.” “One cannot presume an emotion, Hoofwright,” said Luna. “One can merely fear its presence. Regardless of thy true feelings, thou fearest the thought.” Luna slumped into her bed, sulking. “'Tis more than enough, to be sure.” Hoofwright stood rigidly. She didn't know how she was meant to respond to this. “Leave me be, Hoofwright.” Hoofwright nodded, though Luna couldn't see it, and left the room, the door closing with a quiet 'click' behind her. Luna wished to mope and brood, but could not bring herself to. It would be simply too unfitting one of her status. Rather, she stood from her bed and decided to resume her cleaning from before; at least then she thought she might be progressing in some fashion. She looked around the room. It was, largely, clean, save for the large box in the corner. Her eyes were drawn away from it, though, and to her bedside drawer. The letter from before still laid there. It taunted her with its ripped opening. She knew well that it would be a bad idea to read it; it had never been good to read those letters before, and she greatly doubted that would change now. It hurt so very much not to, though. She picked it up in her magic, and brought it close. It seemed so innocent trembling there in front of her. 'Perhaps,' she thought, 'Celestia would not mind were I not the one to read it?' ⁂ “Oh gosh, are you okay?” Loonsworth groaned. His legs were still sore from the healing; he doubted falling over so much helped them any. He glanced up at the bright pink horse in front of him. “I should be alright. I would like some help getting up, though; my legs aren't working very well right now.” “Oh right.” Pinkie gave him a hoof up, and he stood shakily. “Wow, you're new!” “Thanks?” “Your welcome,” she said. “I'm Pinkie Pie. What's your name?” “Loonsworth.” “Oh wow, that really doesn't roll of the tongue, does it?” She furrowed her brows and took on an expression of deep contemplation. “Loooonsworth, Loonswooorth. Loonster? Loonar. Loon-colt. Loooon... pants? Hmm...” Loonsworth was confused. “I don't follow.” “I'm trying to come up with a nickname 'cause your name is really, reeaally boring.” Loonsworth was a little shocked at her bluntness. “Well, my friends call me Loonie.” “Of course! I can tell we'll be the bestest of buddies in no time,” she said excitedly. “Okay.” “So Loonie, are you staying in town, or just visiting? We don't get visitors here too often. Oh! But the Fall Weather Fair is coming up soon; you must be in town for that, right?” “No. I was teleported here by surprise,” he said. “That's why I was in the hospital.” “Oh.” Pinkie Pie wilted in disappointment. “So you'll be leaving, then?” Loonsworth paused. He hadn't given much thought yet to what he would try to do at this point. He had found it best so far to avoid thinking all together; it was certainly less stressful. “I don't think so. I don't think I have anywhere else to be, but I also have nowhere to stay.” Pinkie bounced right back at that. “That's perfect! Sesame Brown has a room up for board at the farm. I'll show you the way there, if you want. It's the least a new friend can do.” “That's very nice of you, thank you,” he said. He found himself pleasantly surprised by this horse. “No problem, that's what friends are for. Just follow me,” she said, hopping her way out of the hospital. Loonsworth followed slowly and carefully. He had a hard enough time keeping balance as it was, but the hurt from his injured legs made it very difficult for him to walk faster than a hobble. At least Pinkie Pie didn't seem to mind the pace. ⁂ Luna entered the throne room in the early afternoon. Her sister was seated, speaking to a mare and a stallion dressed in lavish cloaks. “Sister? Might we speak with thou a moment?” asked Luna. Celestia looked down at Luna with concern. “I'm a little occupied discussing the Maretonian bridge project. Is it urgent, or could we speak later? Perhaps... 6:30, after the meet with the Farmer's Union? I should be able to spare ten or fifteen minutes then.” Luna pursed her lips. “We were unaware we had to schedule a conversation with our sister.” “I am sorry, Luna, I am very busy. The fiscal quarter is coming to a close today, and there is much to take care of to prepare,” said Celestia. “Well,” said Luna, upset, “We art glad we art worth ten or fifteen minutes of thy time, Celestia.” Celestia turned to the diplomats. “I'm terribly sorry, could you excuse us a moment?” The diplomats frowned in displeasure, but nodded. “Deepest apologies, consuls,” she said. She stepped off the throne and followed Luna into the hall outside, where she closed the door quietly and turned to face her sister. “I'm sorry, sister. The day is very stressful. What is the matter?” “Before we departed from Ponyville, after our return, the mayor extended an invitation to the Fall Weather Fair tomorrow.” Celestia stood silent for a while. Finally, she spoke. “...Yes?” “We wish to attend. Celestia stared at her sister in shock. “Luna, surely you did not interrupt my meeting to ask my permission to attend a fair.” “They have a poetry reading planned.” “Luna,” said Celestia, shaking her head, “Oh Luna, whatever is the matter? You are my sister, and you know better than to ask my permission for this. What is so important about this particular poetry reading?” Luna inhaled deeply. “They have a unique tradition. The collection of poetry is supplied by thy student Twilight and is most impressive. But as well one may... request a piece to be read.” Celestia stood silent for a moment, letting the information digest. Her eyes widened rapidly. “Luna! You know better than that. I'm now glad you brought this to my attention.” She looked down at her sister sternly. “You know well enough that you have never been rational about him. It is dangerous. It was... far beyond bad enough the last time.” Celestia stared at her sister silently a moment, her face a stony gaze of disappointment and regret. She said softly, “It was much more than bad enough.” Luna bit her lip. “We understand the ramifications of this decision, sister, it is just the once...” “And then what? Once more? Twice more? No, Luna, we cannot lower ourselves to this kind of indulgence. We must be a common pony at heart. We can never be a common pony in body, Luna. All things pass, even us. But that will not be for a long, long time. You understand that, yes?” Celestia looked down at her sister softly. Luna stared up. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and her face was a twisted expression of bitterness. She lowered her gaze and breathed deeply. “We were wrong to ask this of you sister. Thou art correct in all things. We shall not go.” Celestia sighed. “Nopony is correct in all things, Luna. Thank you for keeping a cool head, I know it isn't easy.” She looked worriedly at her sister. “Are you alright now, Luna?” Luna stamped a hoof, and rose herself straight, sniffing back her pride. “We shall be, Celestia. In time.” “Good afternoon, Luna.” “Good afternoon.” The sisters turned away from eachother, one back into the court, the other standing with her back to the door. “Tomorrow, then.” ⁂ As Pinkie and Loonsworth slowly made their way to Brown's farmhouse, Loonsworth examined his surroundings. The sky was bright and blue, and the air smelt fresh and clean. A soft breeze drifted over, and the sun beat warmth over him. He felt something deeply enjoyable about the way the breeze felt through his fur. The path they were now walking up was a cart path through a massive field of barley that swayed and bent in the wind. “This is a very nice day,” said Loonsworth. “Oh yeah, Cerulean Skies really knows how to live up to his name. He did good.” “Hm?” “Here we are!” shouted Pinkie. They had arrived to a large, brown barn, next to a farmhouse. Loonsworth was confused. “He's in his barn?” “Oh yeah, he should be in there,” said Pinkie. “Go on, he's waiting.” Loonsworth pushed open the door to the barn and stepped inside. Several dozen horses jumped at him, shouting “Surprise!” Loonsworth jumped in shock, and his felt his hooves slip under him. Pinkie caught him as he fell back. “Oof! You're heavy, you know that?” He found his balance again as she pushed him up. Staring into the barn, the whole place was filled with variously coloured horses, and although most did not, many of them had horns or wings. Music started playing, and several of the horses started moving to it. It looked a lot like strange dancing to him; he supposed it probably was. A few of the horses came up to him. “Welcome to Ponyville. Right Wheels, at your service,” one of them said, grinning. He was a deep blue, and had a scraggled amber mane. “Call me Wheels.” He held a hoof out from his body, facing Loonsworth. Loonsworth blinked. “It's a hoof. You bump it,” he said cheekily. Loonsworth rose his hoof and slowly stretched it out to the other. Once they touched, Wheels dropped his. Loonsworth slowly lowered his too. Wheels grinned at him, “Yeah, Pinkie's parties can do that to a pony.” It suddenly occurred to Loonsworth that these might not be horses at all. It never mattered to him before to bother knowing the difference between a horse and a pony, but he could appreciate a straight-forward definition. He didn't know quite how to ask without seeming rude, though. “I'm Berry Punch,” another said. Loonsworth bumped his hoof against hers too. “Bon Bon.” “Crescent Moon.” “So,” said Wheels, casually. “Care to tell us your name?” “Loonsworth.” “Ouch.” “Wheels!” said Bon Bon, appalled. “Sorry,” he said. “My friends call me Loonie,” said Loonsworth. Wheels blinked. “You know that's not really much better, right?” “Ah invited ya into my house, Wheels, ya'd do best not to mock my guests.” Wheels frowned. “Hello to you too, Brown.” The pony that had stepped up was a light-green stallion, with a slick, clean-cut brown mane and thick mustache. He had a deep frown on his face, that looked as if it had been etched into his face from years of cynicism. “Ah do hope mah guests aren't causing you any trouble, Mr. Loonsworth.” His words were slow and thick, like dull, snide molasses. Loonsworth noted he said the word 'guests' with particular venom “I can see the weather, Brown,” said Wheels. “Enjoy the party, Loonie. Nice meeting you.” He left off to the tables with snacks set off to the side. “Well. He usually ain't that civil,” said Brown, drearily. “It don't matter, really.” He reached his mouth over to the nearby table, and pulled the cork off a bottle of wine. He picked the bottle off the table in his mouth, holding it diagonally. “Drink?” he asked through clenched teeth. Loonsworth stared at the strange image of a pony holding a bottle of alcohol in its teeth. His legs were sore, his mind was exhausted and he had just gotten too tired to be shocked by anything going on around him. He really, really, really wanted a drink right about now. He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to actually drink one, though. “No thank you.” The pony shrugged, and poured the wine from the bottle into a glass. He set the bottle down, and picked up the glass with a hoof. He sipped out of it. Loonsworth stared at the hoof. It was a small impossibility, really, given all that had happened. A hoof holding a glass like it was stuck to it seemed minor compared to everything he'd gone through lately; it just all started to strain after a while. He started feeling nauseous and felt like he needed to lie down. “So,” the pony continued with the same, drawling voice. “Ah hear you're an accountant. Ah've been needing a new one for a while now, since Numbers Game passed away; we don't get too many a' you around a place as small as Ponyville. Do ya happen ta be available?” “That's quite nice of you to offer, thank you. I'm unemployed right now,” said Loonsworth. “Can I ask what the job is?” Sesame Brown hmphed. Loonsworth thought it sounded almost pleased, but he wasn't really sure. This stallion seemed very dismal to him, for the most part. “We need a resource and finance manager on the farm. We move a lot of supplies and product on a decent scale; it's important we keep track of our expenses and sales. It's not a huge place, as ya can see, but Ah can't do it myself.” “My last job was as a bookkeeper. This should be very similar,” said Loonsworth. He hoped he was right. “Good. Since ya don't have a place yet, Ah've heard, Ah can lease ya a room at the farmhouse while you're working here,” said Brown, in his dreary tone. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Brown.” “Formality means Ah do need to know where ya got yer degree, though. Canterlot, Manehattan, I just need something to put on the record books if we do keep ya around.” Loonsworth blinked. “Canterlot,” he said. Brown blinked. “Really? That's...” he frowned, “...impressive, Mr. Loonsworth. Ah suspect this might not be the sort'a thing yer used to. Ah don't rightly know if Ah can pay the kinds a' wages yer used to, so if yer just stopping by on yer way back ta bigger things, Ah'd rather know now before I make the mistake of hiring somepony Ah won't be able ta keep.” “I'll be staying around a long while, I think,” said Loonsworth. “You can pay be the standard rate; I think I don't have many things I want to go back to right now.” Brown stared at Loonsworth through squinted eyes, his scowling frown etched deep into his face. Loonsworth felt very uncomfortable under that gaze; something about it seemed to dig into his mind. It peeled back his mind. “Hmph. Ya got a past, but we can keep it there. Ah'm not mah sister, but Ah know a thing or too about integrity, and ya got enough of it that Ah'll drop it there. Ya can go mingle if ya want; Ah'm not much for this kind of thing,” said Brown, frowning. “Ah'll be in the study if ya need me. That's in the farmhouse, the door at end of the stairs to the right. Afternoon, then.” Brown drank up his glass, and turned to leave. “Just a moment,” said Loonsworth. The pony looked back, raising an eyebrow, “What?” “I'm feeling nauseous. Is there somewhere I can lie down?” Brown squinted at him. “Ya know this is yer party, right? They're all waiting ta meet ya.” Loonsworth blinked. He had nearly forgotten that. It seemed to him since he had begun his conversation with Brown that the ponies had just left him alone. He looked over the crowd, where the ponies were still chatting and dancing. Several of them occasionally looked towards him, but each time they stopped. Each time they would look over to Brown then look away; they seemed to give him a wide berth. Loonsworth thought it was nothing he bothered to care about. His legs were still sore, his stomach was churning and he felt a great weight of stress. “I do appreciate the party, Mr Brown, but I feel very poorly right now. If it's alright with you, I'd rather meet the town another time.” Brown hmphed again. He seemed to do that quite a bit. “Don't go saying sorry to me, Pinkie insisted on the thing. Ah hate parties. Ah'll show ya to yer room now, though, if ya really want.” “Thank you,” said Loonsworth. He began following Brown towards the barn doors. “Have you tried the punch yet?” said Pinkie. Loonsworth blinked. “No,” he said. He hadn't noticed her come up, and now she walked beside him. “You aren't leaving without trying the punch, are you?” she said. Something in her voice seemed a little less like doubt and a little more like concern to Loonsworth. “I'm feeling sick. I think I'm going to go lie down,” he said. She seemed to wither a little at that. “Oh. That's a shame. I won't make you stay if you are; sometimes that's just what happens.” “I'm sorry I made you go through so much work,” he said. “Thank you for the party.” “No no, don't thank me, just enjoy yourself. That's enough for me. And sometimes that means being left alone for a while. It's just a shame you aren't well enough to meet everypony at the moment.” She smiled. “I hope you feel better in the morning.” “I hope so too.” She stopped, and the other two ponies left the barn. The other ponies in the barn began to talk amongst themselves in confusion. “I'm sorry, everypony, Loonsworth is still sick from the hospital,” said Pinkie. “The party was a bit much. He'll be staying here at the farm, though, and you'll all have lots of chances to meet him soon.” ⁂ Loonsworth laid in bed. It was very quiet around him, and it gave him space to clear his thoughts. He felt clean. He felt tired. He felt... afraid. He was lying on a clean mattress that felt no different from what he was used to. The room around him was neat and orderly, with a window to the back and a door to the front. The walls were beige. The pillow was soft and fluffed. Everything was quite comfortable. It struck a chord in him of familiarity that scared him greatly. He didn't understand why he was here, or what he was meant to do, or why God had chosen him to be here at this time. He missed his daughter greatly, but he felt he did not deserve her anymore. 'Maybe that's it. I have failed. I am being punished.' No, he thought, that didn't make sense. It was common knowledge that when God punished people he was a little more showy about it than that. Floods, meteors, lightning, that sort of thing. At least a beheading or two. 'I am here because God wants to get rid of me.' Absurd. He had much easier ways to do that. Killing him, for example. 'I have been sent here to prove myself. I have been given redemption. He has given me my job back to prove I can put my talents to use. He has given me neighbours I can be kind to. He has given me a home I can appreciate and learn to thank Him for.' Loonsworth paused, and he recalled the eyes he had seen before. He recalled the brutal anger they had. God was punishing him for his sins, by taking away his daughter, but in His eternal forgiveness, he was giving him a second chance. Loonsworth's mother had always told him, “God has such gladness every time he sees from heaven that a sinner is praying to Him with all his heart, as a mother has when she sees the first smile on her baby's face". He always thought she was being sardonic, since he couldn't remember many times when she had smiled at him. Certainly not many when she was acting very 'Christian', as she put it. But it seemed now to make such sense. Yes, he would not stray from his duties. He would not let God down. God had given him a new life. That had to be it. ⁂ Whorlseley considered the pony before him. She was very strange, certainly, and not just because of the way she acted or the way she looked. She seemed to be ignorant of some things any pony at all should have understood. Over the past few days she had shown no understanding of how to use cutlery, how to , or even how to read. A lot of the time she just looked at things. With very wide eyes. Rather like she was right then. It was a little unnerving, to say the least; especially while she was being given a bath. Whorlseley had stopped Lt. Fuddlesworth off at a nearby lake for it; he at least seemed content enough to chew on a nearby tree. Willow was being rather less cooperative. It wasn't that she resisted taking a bath, persay, more that she simply was not bathing herself. She was just sitting there, a few feet into the water, examining her surroundings. “You know dear, I can appreciate the beauty of the great outdoors as much as the next pony, but perhaps you could do so at another time?” he grunted, scrubbing a cloth over her fur. She didn't answer, content to keep glancing about at the nearby trees and rocks. He grumbled and kept scrubbing. He was finding himself rather disgusted at the amount of grime that was soaking out of her fur in the water. It was astounding; he doubted he had ever seen a coat so stained with muck in his life. It had been so ground into her fur that he had originally thought it was part of it. Now that the muck was coming out it was clear that the mottles of grey were just muddy dirt, and her coat was a dark green all through. As it washed away, on her strange, humped hide he could make out her cutie mark. A pure black circle. Outside of its mysterious meaning, it seemed particularly unusual in its exact symmetry and perfect roundness. So much of the mare, from her silence and expressionless face to her lumpy, malformed body seemed almost broken somehow, but here this circle was unbroken and unbent. More mysteries. He sighed. 'Well, at least she's clean now.' He started wading back towards the giant crab in the center of the lake. “Come on, now, we've got to make good time. We're leaving for Ponyville; that's a good couple months south from here. Best get an early start.” He didn't need to tell her to follow him, she would have done it anyways, but it made him feel better to say it out loud. “I've got an old friend to visit about that symbol you're sporting there. Something about it seems familiar, but I can't place what. She always was a lot better at the whole encyclopedia thing.” ⁂ Luna teleported into Golden Oak Library at the beginning of the afternoon. She felt she had to minimize the time spent away from Canterlot. The room around her was a warm, wooden scene, with books covering the walls, a few in short stacks on the floor, and one or two piles of paper next to a desk to the side. She had never been to Golden Oak before, but it seemed quite homely. She saw Twilight walking down the stairs, reading her new copy of Thaumaturgical Equestrian. “Good afternoon, Twilight Sparkle.” Twilight suddenly dropped the magazine. She rushed down the stairs and immediately began levitating the scattered books and papers onto the desk and shelves. “Princess Luna! I had no idea you were going to visit us,” she said nervously. Luna brushed her off, “Oh, 'tis nothing important. We have merely arrived for the Fall Weather Fair. We hear thou hast quite the poetry reading planned.” “Oh!” said Twilight, relieved. She spoke bashfully, “I can't really take the credit. I did organize it and donate most of the collection, but it was actually the mayor who suggested it.” “Really?” said Luna. “Well, 'tis right of her to do so. Poetry is a wondrous art indeed.” “Oh, absolutely, it's fascinating. I was just having a conversation the other day with Professor Wordsworth about his ancestor, the famous poet Wordsmith. Did you know he apparently had a sectoral heterochromia? His left eye was part yellow, and part blue-green.” Luna cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as fascinating as the colouring of his eyes may have been, we are perhaps more interested in his poetry; and if we are not to depart soon, we may miss the reading of it scheduled for 12:30.” “You're absolutely right,” said Twilight. “I didn't realize how quickly the time went by.” “Thou must excuse us,” said Luna. She prepared her spell, and a wave of blue swept down her body, leaving behind much shorter, dark blue pegasus. “We shall be donning the guise of an ordinary pegasus, so as not to draw attention. We do not wish to detract from the poetry by being an unnecessary diversion.” “That very thoughtful of you,” said Twilight. “Er... do you plan on changing your speech?” “We already have,” said Luna. “As thou can hear, our voice has been altered so as to disguise our true selves. 'Tis noticeably higher in pitch, and softer in tone.” “Uh... well yes, yes it is...” “Excellent,” said Luna. “Then we shalt proceed with the poetry.” She left the library, heading west of the market square, where a small group was gathering around an outdoor stage. It was a small, red thing, with a slapdash podium nailed to the middle. It was hardly a great feat of construction, but it seemed to do the job. An older, beige unicorn was standing at the podium. He was currently come to the end of reciting a classic piece by the poet Silvertongue. “...He took a seat, that he might ease, His weary feet, that now he thought, So chilled upon the evening breeze, His clothes, he felt, would warm him not; And though his soul felt ever broken, Still inside he felt content, Discomfort was an honest token, Grief was due his earned lament.” The end was met with the polite stamping of hooves. As the reader warmed up for another, Luna suddenly felt a nervousness creep over her. She felt wrong to do this. Her sister was a kind, and fair pony; she knew this now more than ever, and she had done so much for her since her return. Perhaps it was improper to demand this kind of indulgence. Perhaps it was best to just let it go. But most of all, she found that she was afraid of actually hearing what she came for. Celestia was right; it was dangerous, so very, very dangerous. “Do we have any requests? We have quite the collection. Maybe something somepony wrote themselves?” 'We should not be here,' she thought. With a very, very heavy sigh, Luna turned to leave. “We are sorry Twilight, but we must cut our trip short.” Twilight looked back, surprised. “Are you sure? But the reading just started.” “Yes, we'll have to join you some other...” Her words were interrupted when a voice called out from the crowd, “A Starlit Moon, by Wordsmith.” “Ah. A classic.” Luna froze.
