Strange Alchemy

The structure of the Citadel was exceedingly complex, and within its ancient walls existed many features built by its long-forgotten architects that were mostly unknown to the outside world except through whispered rumors. One of these features was the complex and breathtaking system of indoor gardens.

These gardens were reserved strictly for nobility and for the exclusive use of the royal family. Even among them, though, none knew of their origin, their purpose, and few knew of their history. Through the endless ages, the art of growing many of the rare and exotic plants- -most of which were no longer found on Panbios, or at least anywhere in Equestria- -had been lost. The plants had receded and died, replaced by hardier and weedier breeds that could be cultured without such great care.

Still, many of the more delicate and stunning plants remained. Perhaps the most impressive of all were the eternal larch. In the millennia that had passed since their planting as saplings, the trees had only grown stronger, their trunks gnarled and twisted as they reached toward the crystal-illuminated ceiling above. These trees had existed longer than the Horn Dynasty itself, and longer than Equestria.

Beneath one of these trees, leaning against its rough and stringy ancient trunk, sat alone pony. Though the light from above was dim, she was reading a loosely bound and well-worn book, its title “The Life and Exploits of Single Horn, Eternal Queen of Equestria”.

As Fyr’mond moved to turn the page, she realized that she had been reading the same paragraph over and over again for close to ten minutes. This book was not new to her- -nor was it new to Equestria- -and she was, in fact, in the middle of her favorite chapter. It explained how Fyr’mond’s great grandmother, Single Horn, had discovered the Element of Generosity, the cyborg Tenth Sister.

Of all the six Elements of Harmony, Fyr’mond had always considered Tenth Sister to be the most compelling. She had been, according to the ancient tome, a mare of unparalleled beauty and grace- -yet, when her nine sisters were mortally wounded during the legendary Choggoth War, she had given them her body itself. She had been left with nothing, the remainder of her mutilated body encased in agonizing machinery, and yet, if the story was to believed, never once complained and never once was asked by any of her sisters for her sacrifice. Fyr’mond believed- -and had always believed- -that doing so was her true beauty after all.

Even though she loved the part about Tenth Sister, Fyr’mond still found still could not concentrate. Her father had made her aware of what she was expected to do, that she was to marry the Magus Doctor Dee. She had no choice in this matter, nor did she expect any. This was, after all, her destiny. It was what she had been born for, and her duty as a princess.

Many had come before her. She had so many sisters. There had been thousands of them going back millennia. Most of them were gone now, each of them having aged and died. Unlike their father, they were mortal. They- -Fyr’mond included- -would be born, live, and die, and have their names recorded in the archives. Some of the most loved might even get a portrait made and hung in some room of the Citadel, although even the paintings of Fyr’mond’s eldest sisters had aged to the point where they had become unrecognizable.

Throughout those endless iterations, each princess had served one purpose. All of them had been married off to different ponies- -to powerful wizards, sorcerers, soldiers, generals, to anypony with sufficient magical potential, really. The goal was always the same: to produce an heir that would escape their bloodline’s curse.

At first, Fyr’mond’s elder sisters had been able to bear children. Those that came, though, would never live especially long, or would always be in poor health. In recent times, her sisters that still lived and were not elderly all failed to conceive.

Fyr’mond knew that she was different, though, for two reasons. Firstly, she was the last. Her father- -their father- -had grown too old to sire more children. Second, the curse held her less tightly than the others. She was the most powerful Horn ever born, second only to Single Horn. Her magical potential was even greater than that of her father by far.

She set the book down, placing a mark on her page. Across from her, across the blanket on which she sat, was a bottle of golden apple juice and a set of small cups. She forced her energy into her horn and reached out toward the nearest of the cups. It shook slightly in her white magic, and lifted off the ground slightly before falling back to the cloth. Now tired and finding she had developed a slight headache, Fyr’mond simply reached out and poured the golden fluid by hoof.

As she sat back and sipped the exquisitely sweet fluid, she pondered her situation, wondering about the stallion that she was to marry. She had seen him nearly a week earlier on that eventful day. Not only had it been her first trip outside of the Citadel, but she had witnessed a feat that even the most fantastical of her books had not even thought to describe. The Magus had raised and lowered the Spheres, casting the world in light as red as blood and in profound darkness. Never before had she been more terrified, or more impressed. He had been a terrifying sight, his body pouring out seemingly limitless magical energy funneled through spells that Fyr’mond knew she could never even hope to comprehend. Yet, the whole time, she had not been able to look away. She had been mesmerized by his godlike power, the poise and confidence with which he reached out to do the impossible- -but that very same feature made him seem so unapproachable, so much larger than she was.

Even Amddiffynnwr had seemed impressed by the feat, even if he was still against the union in general. Fyr’mond smiled. Amddiffynnwr had been adopted by the Horn family at a young age, and he was only slightly older than herself. She had always thought of him as an older brother, even if he was from a lower caste, and she found it charming that he seemed to be looking out for her.

As she stared across the field and took a second sip from the tiny cup, Fyr’mond suddenly realized that the room had grown noticeably darker. She looked up toward the ceiling, wondering if she had accidentally ventured out during one of the automated rain showers that occasionally- -and sometimes violently- -swept through the gardens.

Her heart sunk when she saw the precipitation start- -but then her eyes widened. What fell was not rain, but tiny flakes of material.

“Snow?” she said, reaching out a hoof and catching a flake on her golden horseshoe. She looked at it closely, and saw that it was actually not snow at all- -though like snow, the material was golden and luminescent.

More started to fall, and Fyr’mond looked up in wonder as it drifted down slowly, some of it in swirls. Then, before her eyes, the gold shifted, forming abstract shapes that seemed to dance like fairies as they floated down and soared upward, all surrounding her.

Music seemed to play from nowhere at all, as if the air itself had suddenly begun to pipe a soft and distant symphony. Fyr’mond closed her eyes and listened. The sounds were strange and beautiful, the sort that no instrument could produce, each slowly shifting based on some carefully tuned system that her unconscious mind seemed to understand while her consciousness could not.

When she opened her eyes, a light was approaching her through the darkness. Fyr’mond released an unladylike gasp and covered her mouth at the sight of the pony approaching her. He was the same that she had seen that day, the pony who had moved the sun and moon- -the Magus Doctor Dee.

Fyr’mond felt her breath catch in her throat. He was not a beautiful stallion, by far, but he moved in such a way that showed that it did not matter, neither to him nor, truly, to those around him. He stood with his head held high, and each step he took was an act of absolute conscious will. He seemed to exude confidence, but what Fyr’mond might have otherwise considered to be arrogant was tempered by his appearance as a wizard: he was old and wizened, with a long but perfectly groomed beard. More importantly, though, his dark eyes- -which Fyr’mond could almost feel staring at her- -seemed as though he knew so much more than anypony else could even guess at.

As he moved, the plants shifted beneath his feet. They grew, propelled by his magic, and changed. Blue-green fungus and herbs sprouted to either side of him, their bizarre natural light framing him as he approached. Fyr’mond could not help but marvel at the plants that appeared to his sides, many of which had no doubt laid dormant for decades if not centuries in the synthetic soil.

Finally, he stepped over the small river that ran toward her larch tree and onto the small island where she sat. With what seemed like a passing glance, he noticed the water and smiled. Gently, he lowered his horn and tapped it against the surface. The water bubbled and rose, and Fyr’mond felt her eyes widen as the water floated into the air, hardening into gears and cogs of solid ice.

At the Magus’s command, the ice suddenly assembled into miniature models of ponies, each cast from frozen crystal. Fyr’mond squeaked with surprise when they immediately jumped to the ground and began to prance and play in the grass around her as if they were themselves alive instead of animated by magic.

She dropped to her knees and stared up at him as he approached. She did not know why her heart was beating so fast. Surely, she thought, this stallion could not be the one who she had been selected to marry.

The Magus smiled a soft, knowing smile, and then bowed deeply.

“Princess Fyr’mond o’Horn,” he said, his voice raspy and old but so much more gentle than it had been during his feat. “I am the Magus, Doctor Dee. I bid you good evening.”

As he bowed, so did everything else in his presence. The drifting golden creations from above momentarily slowed their flight, bowing as they swooped gently to the side. The ice ponies stopped and bowed as well- -even the plants did. The music momentarily shifted, and the Magus held out his hoof. The notes seemed to collect, pouring through the air and concentrating, assembling as though they were matter instead of force.

From the ether appeared a tiny and delicately decorated musicbox.

“A gift,” he said, presenting it to her. With shaking hooves, she took it. “Go ahead,” he said, almost chuckling. “If it is milady’s will, open it.”

Fyr’mond lifted the lid, and the sound that she had heard before poured out. From inside, a tiny mechanical pony looked up at here- -and then started to dance softly to the music.

“Does this please you?” he asked. Fyr’mond could only nod, and the Magus smiled. “Then I am pleased in turn. I can create all this at any time, and I shall, if only you ask. It was for you, my dear princess, that I moved the sun and moon themselves. Consider this all, and all that shall come, to be an expression of my undying love for you.”

“Doctor…” whispered Fyr’mond, the doubts she had felt before evaporating before her very eyes.

Dee looked down at the pony before him. Her eyes were opened almost impossibly wide as she sat on her knees. Though he maintained his smile and stance- -as he had grown accustomed to- -upon inspection, he realized that she was at best homely. Her face was excessively round, and her body thickened by a life of indulgence. Fyr’mond’s coat was the most boring color of light sand-brown, save for her ruddy and unattractive cheeks. Even her eyes were boring and gray, and her horn was childishly small.

Her intelligence, Dee knew, was also in doubt. He knew that she had virtually no magical potential, and even the simplest of tricks had seemed to astound her when magic was in fact so much more. The very thought of having to lie with such a fool repulsed him.

None of that mattered, though. He truly did want to marry her. Regardless of how she appeared, she was indeed a princess. With her at his side, he would be bound forever to the royal family, his place as Magus secured indefinitely. Fyr’mond was unpleasant, but what she represented was priceless- -and for that, he knew that he could learn to tolerate her. Perhaps, in time, he might even devise a way to love her.