I: Sit In Ludos Incipe | A Prologue
In Sæcula Sæculorum- = - = - I- = - = - Sit In Ludos Incipe | A Prologueby
Zettachrome
(D.C. Perry)
Ponyville was placed far enough away from the explosion that all of its trees and plants and animals and all of its inhabitants were left alive. All of its buildings still stood, and all of its property left untouched. Surface-wise, it was completely unscathed. But that explosion, that massive, earth-breaking billowing cloud of light and smoke and shards of wood marked the beginning of a revelation that would scar the hearts and minds of thousands for a time much longer than those jarring few seconds.
It came from the Everfree, as all strange things did, and drew much attention. It was not near the hut of Zecora, and nor was it near the old palace; it was near nowhere. It seemed as if some massive blast of energy simply picked a random spot among the dark and twisted branches and shrubs and released itself there.
This was, as it happens, not the truth. That explosion had a long and tragic story behind it, one involving the grand and infamous creature called Twilight Sparkle, that ever-prominent and ever-bright savior of Equestria.
The public version story begins with a discovery made in the dead and silent hours of the night, in a hidden corner deep within the halls of a library, the one belonging to Canterlot University, Twilight's second favorite after the one at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns.
Twilight, naturally, liked her books and long hours spent at the libraries were not uncommon. and her status as Celestia's personal pupil bought her access to everything that the libraries had to offer, including her not getting kicked out when the buildings closed. It was then when she was alone. Which was preferable.
Twilight hurried down the dark hallways with her horn alighted with a magick aura, casting a purple glow and uncovering the secrets enshrouded in the darkness. Books. Old, ancient, forbidden and grotesque tomes holding monstrous secrets within their eldritch and dusty pages. Twilight loved them all.
The Canterlot University's library owned a very specific selection of books, books locked away, ones that Celestia's school would have never permitted. All of these were books of dark magic, grimoires of old prophecies and blasphemous rituals. Twilight was so very tempted to try some of the spells out, but she knew that it was not worth the risk. But she was usually content with simply reading them, feeling the exhilaration of knowing the unknowable fueling her heart. She was very careful, never letting her curiosity stray too afar and never following the instructions, but instead simply gazing at the odd symbols and sadistic runes; some of the books were written in twisted and queer scripts that had long been lost, stuffed with ever queerer illustrations.
She could picture them in her head as she gathered her choices and sat down with them, these old and long-dead mages and magicians, scribbling into the massive books with their quills, clad in dark clothing while they sat at large, solid desks with slowly dying candles about them.
Part of her, buried deep within the nethermost pits of her heart, ached for the times in which laws and ethics were not so restrictive and blinding to the necessary path magick and science. But whenever this part pf her began to rise to the surface, Twilight hastily shoved it away and abandoned her forbidden studies for the night.
She hasn't noticed, but the intervals during which this part rises, and the ferocity with which it does so, are beginning to rise.
Later, when the moon is began to touch the eastern horizon, Twilight closed her last book with a heavy sigh, her mind buzzing. She knew she was meddling with things she should not be, but this was a fact that she subsequently ignored. She could keep her curiosity, her urges in check, she told herself for the millionth time as she left the secret hall and then the overall house of books.
And with that, the library was finally abandoned, only to spend a few more hours in darkness before being opening again, for normal ponies and their normal studies.
Spike ground his jaw in frustration when he heard the lower door open and close, the solid sound vibrating up through the floors and the walls and causing him to stir. He turned over in his basket and checked the time. It was almost five in the morning. Spike was in the least optimum mood possible to deal with whatever was going on, so he thrust his scaled head right back into his pillows and fell back to sleep.
Meanwhile, Twilight--fancying herself a stealthy one--snuck up the stairs and ascended to her bedroom. She discarded her bag and her woolen cloak on the ground and slid between her covers, most certainly glad that it was a Saturday.
She was awoken several hours later by her internal clock and, fully rested, jumped out of bed. Despite how long she was up previously, toiling in darkness, it was only a little past noon. Spike appeared to have waked and left his basket, most likely shopping for supplies or visiting one of his candy shops. Twilight went and, after her morning rituals, made a simple breakfast. Then, with nothing else to do, sat and read, books of standard history this time. But her mind never truly left that murky and nebulous place where it had been spending much of its time. While her mind debated over whether or not the legend Nightmare Moon was worth being pessimistic about, her subconscious nattered quietly about that one particular book, that horrifying yet thrilling equipodermic bibliopegy hidden in the deepest of the vaults. Allegedly, it has fifty-one names, but the one christened upon this particular version, this particular translation is: The Book of the Old Ones.
None of the books in that particular collection had been proven to be truthful, but this one spoke the most, of an abyss-like dimension, of Non-Euclidean shapes, and of creatures tantamount with space and time itself. True or not, it was an amazing. And Twilight wanted to see it. So very badly she did, but it was not a risk worth taking.
She could control her curiosity . . . she could control her curiosity . . . .
