You Broke My Heart Into Pieces
That night, thunder roared, the Meta Dragon grinned, and the baby laughed.
Few things in this world are more powerful than a baby’s laughter, and few beasts are as deadly as the Meta Dragon. A baby’s laughter is a beautiful sound, powerful for what it reminds us of. The Meta Dragon is the Beast that feeds on stories, deadly because it has a lot of teeth and knows how to use them.
That night, thunder roared, the Meta Dragon grinned, and the baby laughed.
That’s how this particular story starts.
Time has changed fairytales. Now they’re safe, harmless; they always have a happy ending. But that’s not how they used to be. Fairytales were to inspire wonder in children, yes, but wonder was an afterthought. In the old times, fairytales had one single purpose.
Fairytales were to inspire fear.
Because it’s fear that stays with you.
I remember with awe the stories my father told me when I was a kid. Always loyal to the classics, he never gave me the watered down versions. He told me of Rapunzel’s lover, and the thorns that gouged his eyes out. Of Cinderella’s stepmother, and the blistering magical shoes that forced her to dance herself dead. Of Bluebeard, and the fate of his wives.
It was a younger Aragón that listened to those stories, eyes wide open, trembling under the sheets, wondering why exactly was it necessary to describe the disemboweling scene with such detail when I’m eight years old. Nowadays, I’m older— though many say, not wiser—but my eyes are wide as ever. I’ve not forgotten. I remember.
Perhaps is that why the Meta Dragon found me, and why it’s using me to feed, to shape a tale it can consume: because of my memory, and because I know how to tell a proper fairytale.
On the other hand, perhaps it’s because I’ve always been easy to convince if you threaten to disembowel me. Tragic flaw of mine, that one.
It is, then, with a heavy heart that I’m forced to write this down.
Because this is not a happy story.
It’s a fairytale.
So please ignore the thunder, hear the baby laughing.
And fear you won’t hear it again.
In the Meta Dragon’s opinion, it is fairly simple to steal a baby. Step one is picking it up, step two is running away. It’s easy and straightforward—and certainly better than making one, there are less distractions. The heist becomes even easier if the plan asks to kidnap the entire baby. After all, taking off with just half of it should be downright impossible unless you’re carrying something sharp and don’t mind the mess.
And, even then, to partially steal a baby—three quarters, tops—one would need either a master thief… Or a really, really, really incompetent one.
Enter Side Step.
Side Step was the kind of mare who could be drawn entirely with a compass. She had been born in the Westernmost part of Equestria, where farmers are the apex predator and yeast was the most exciting thing in a seven hundred mile radius. The only martial arts she knew were of culinary nature. She believed “crumpets” was a strong word, and walked with the stealth of a jazz orchestra.
Her birth name had been Plum Pudding, a fairly respectable name for the Westerners—who thought anything too far from “Fats McGee” was disgraceful—and by her sixteenth birthday, she wanted to live a different life. A life of adventures, and danger, and yeastless excitement. A life not fit for a Plum Pudding.
So she kissed her parents goodbye, changed her name to Side Step, and walked East.
And now she had sneaked in the Crystal Palace and was about to kidnap the Royal Baby.
Now, the Royal Baby had a name. Most babies did, in fact. But in Side Step’s mind, saying “the Royal Baby” made it easier, because Princess Flurry Heart was a pony. Living, breathing, innocent. Princess Flurry Heart had a face, and a family, and Side Step believed herself a good mare.
But that was Princess Flurry Heart. The Royal Baby had no face or family. The word “Royal” was big enough, shiny enough, to derive attention from the “Baby” bit and make her feel slightly better.
If you didn’t think too much about it, the Royal Baby was basically the same as a crown, only with diapers.
When Side Step sneaked into the Palace, it was late, and the moon was shining. Her every step echoed along the Crystal Palace’s long hallways. She wasn’t having doubts, oh no, she couldn’t afford to... But as she made her way to the Royal Baby’s chambers, part of Side Step wished for a guard to catch her, and maybe throw her to the dungeons a little bit.
Not too much, though. Being slightly thrown into the dungeons would suffice. No need for the full package, all she needed was a taste of prison.
But the Crystal Guards were nowhere to be seen.
Side Step had, anatomically speaking, a big heart. This was partially to complement the rest of her and partially because with a small heart there’s just so much chocolate you can eat before reaching coronary failure.
That being so, when she arrived to the Royal Baby’s chambers, she stopped. She wondered if she really wanted to do this. She wondered if adventures and excitement were meant to make you feel like crying, or if there was something wrong with what she was doing.
She came close, really close, to an answer.
Then, thunder roared.
The Meta Dragon feeds on stories, and stories only go one way. You can’t have a fairytale without a tragedy at the start, because old stories follow old rules, old rules imply old magic, and old magic is powerful.
The story called for a Thief to steal a Princess. This meant that the Thief would steal the Royal Baby. Never mind conscience, never mind regret, never mind Side Step. She was not important, she was just a puppet, and puppets dance when you pull the strings. This was the Will of the Meta Dragon.
Thunder roared again.
Side Step gave up. She opened the door to the Royal Baby Chambers. She approached the Royal Baby. She looked at it, and by force of will—be it hers or not—she did not see a pony, living, breathing, innocent. She saw a crown and a diaper. Stealing a crown and a diaper wouldn’t be that hard.
Somewhere else, the Meta Dragon grinned.
Side Step grabbed the Royal Baby.
And then, almost as if the author himself was fighting against the Meta Dragon, almost as if Aragón resented being threatened to write a fairytale against his will, the baby laughed.
Few things in this world are more powerful than a baby’s laughter. Few things in this world are more deadly than the Meta Dragon. Side Step opened her eyes, and in her arms was Flurry Heart, a pony with a face, a family, and a beautiful laugh.
Even though the world was horrible, that sound was still wonderful. And even though that sound was wonderful, the Meta Dragon was still deadly.
Side Step was forced to make a choice.
Thunder drowned the baby laughter.
The Thief was reminded of her place.
A crime was committed.
To have your daughter stolen, to have your child taken away in the dark of the night—such a thing, for a father, is unacceptable. Some things, quite simply, can’t be.
That morning, when faced with the impossible, Shining Armor did not cry.
He just sort of stood there and said “um” a lot.
Shining Armor was not a sensible pony. He believed in feelings—he was aware they existed—but he was usually too busy to register any. A king was the most powerful thing in his kingdom, but with great power came great paperwork. Bureaucracy and emotional speeches don’t go well together.
The way he saw it, feelings only got in the way. He loved his family, but that was his limit. So when Cadance awoke him with a scream that morning, he felt literally overwhelmed with emotions.
But he was a pony of action. Instead of feeling, he decided to act. He walked alongside his wife, and looked at his kidnapped daughter.
His kidnapped daughter, who was right in front of him. Peacefully sleeping in her crib.
Not an expert on kidnapping babies—his hobbies verged more towards the comic-book spectrum—Shining Armor had always believed that having the kidnapée literally anywhere else but her room was kind of the whole point of the kidnapping.
One single look at Flurry Heart taught him how wrong he’d been.
Behind him, Cadance cried a little harder. This was not because of an inner urge, but because she knew her husband, she knew his limitations, and someone had to carry the emotional weight of the scene while he played detective.
Shining acknowledged this with a nod before turning back to what was left of his daughter.
On a purely physical sense, the baby was complete. The number of legs and heads checked out. But only fools think the body is all there is to a kid, and both Shining Armor and Cadance could tell something was missing. They’d given birth to Flurry Heart, and they’d changed her diapers one too many times not to notice this.
Flurry Heart was sleeping perhaps a tad bit too deeply, too peacefully. She looked like a little angel instead of the small hollering demon Shining knew she was. Her shade of pink was paler than usual. She barely moved, she wasn’t drooling, her diaper was clean, and all this noise hadn’t waken her.
She wasn’t a baby. She was a chunk of baby-shaped space.
Someone had kidnapped Flurry Heart’s essence.
Cadance cried a little harder. This time, it wasn’t on purpose.
Shining Armor didn’t cry, but he tried to wake his daughter up. He tickled the left side of her belly. She didn’t react.
This time, he didn’t say “um”.
Feelings were not his forte. Shining Armor was a simple pony, a pony of action. In his humble opinion, feelings only got in the way. But he still loved his family.
That was his limit.
Without letting go of Cadance, he gave orders. He asked his servants to bring his armor, to send a letter, to listen to everything his wife said, and to cancel all his duties for the day.
Somepony had partially stolen his baby. Somepony was partially going to pay.
In full.
Sunburst was one of Equestria’s most beloved intellectuals, universally regarded as a genius. It makes perfect sense then how, like all erudite individuals, he was unemployed and had no friends.
He was also the only pony Shining Armor could ask for help.
“I need your assistance.”
Four words and one look was all His Majesty needed. Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the bags under his eyes, or maybe it was his actual legal authority. No way to know, but whatever it was, something in Shining made Sunburst rush to close the blinds, lock the door behind them, and put the teapot on the stove.
Once the water started to boil, Sunburst let himself relax a little. While not a fan of infusions himself, he’d been raised by a mare who firmly believed anything important enough not to be fixed by a cup of tea was in dire need of a drink anyway.
Once the water started to boil, Sunburst let himself relax a little. Shining Armor had the eyes of somepony who had seen hell.
Then Shining Armor added “because my daughter has been kidnapped.”
It took Sunburst a moment.
His Majesty’s daughter. Flurry Heart.
Sunburst had never had a child, because his only companion in life was Starlight Glimmer, who lived all the way down in Ponyville, and some things, hard as Sunburst tried, were impossible to accomplish with mere epistolary. So he couldn’t really imagine what Shining Armor was going through at the moment.
But he could try. He could see His Majesty’s eyes, or hear His Majesty’s voice.
The man had lost his baby.
Sunburst put two more teapots on the stove.
They sat down when the first cup was ready, and Sunburst asked for details, even though he didn’t want them. He had been the Royal Crystaller and Flurry Heart’s babysitter for a long time—for him to hear what Shining Armor needed to say wasn’t as much a right as it was an obligation.
So His Majesty explained it. They had stolen roughly three quarters of Flurry Heart. They had left something behind, but it wasn’t a baby anymore, not really. Cadance was devastated.
Sunburst went “um.”
There was a moment of silence. Shining Armor struggled with his words. It wasn’t easy for him to explain what he’d seen. What he’d felt, even though he wasn’t a pony that cared for feelings.
Then he sighed, and gave up.
She hadn’t giggled when he had tickled her left side, Shining Armor said. That’s where she’s the most ticklish. She always giggled. But this morning she hadn’t. She hadn’t even woken up.
His grip around the teacup got tighter.
Flurry Heart had been cold to the touch, he said.
This time, Sunburst didn’t go “um.”
In short, Shining Armor finished after an awkward moment, they were talking essences. Flurry Heart’s essence had been stolen. So if he, Sunburst, had seen somepony suspicious last night—somepony that just happened to carry the essence of a baby around, well, that would be just great. That would be perfect, really.
Sunburst made a point of drinking his tea instead of replying.
Not for emotional reasons. The Crystal Empire was a land of stone and ice, and its cold rains forced hearts to harden. Misery was accepted as a fact of life, and tragedy was merely a bleaker spot on an already bleak background. They were used to the cold, and if they needed it, they knew places to find warm.
So this wasn’t about emotion. This was about memories.
I pause the story, and wonder: When did Sunburst fall in love with books, with stories? Did he also have his father reading fairytales late at night?
Now, the Meta Dragon wants me to shut up and write the story, I know. But I think I have some leeway. Thing is, I relate to Sunburst, and to be honest, I think I’m sort of projecting here, if I want to explain why he had to pause and take a sip. I don’t know where Sunburst ends and Aragón begins.
Then again, “Write What You Know”, they say, don’t they?
(Here’s hoping I survive this little pause, though. Lots of teeth.)
I was young, back then. All great lessons come with early age or old regrets, because that’s when we’re smart enough to think we’re dumb. Even though it was my father who read me bedtime stories, it was my mother whom I asked questions. Seemed fitting.
Why always a prince? That’s what I asked her that time. How come it’s always a prince that fights the monster?
She replied with that roguish smile all mothers have. She said, because one day he’ll be king.
And I asked, then why not just have a king fighting?
Ah, she told me. Because once you’re a king, that’s all you’ll ever be.
I think they were those words, or something close enough, what crossed Sunburst’s mind. He poured himself a new cup, and looked at Shining Armor with something that might have been pity.
They had stolen Flurry Heart’s essence, he thought. Then he realized that he had no idea what a baby’s essence actually was.
And with the wisdom of a father, Shining Armor said it was mostly diapers. And screaming. Lots of screaming.
Sunburst went “oh”.
Beautiful gift, parenthood, they both agreed.
The problem was this: if they had stolen her essence, then they were not dealing with a kidnapping. They were dealing with a story. Everything is a story, Sunburst could tell. It takes a lover to tell a bride.
And Flurry Heart was the protagonist, of course. It was a classical tale—a princess, kidnapped, and a kingdom to cry the loss. She would be rescued, eventually, but many years would pass, because that’s how things went. They would need to wait for some kind of knight, for a—
And Shining Armor caressed his cup of tea, and said, “I am a knight.”
Well. Yes. Sunburst nodded. Yes, he was. Good for him, really. But someone had stolen Flurry Heart’s essence. That’s why they hadn’t bothered with the full baby, because the baby wasn’t been important—the important bit had been the message, the meaning, the essence of the tale. At its core, the Princess had been stolen.
“Or, ah, the Princess at its core has been stolen,” Sunburst added. “Um, grammar. Can be confusing.”
Still, the story was happening. Old magic, old rules were at work. Only a prince could—
And Shining Armor said, “I am a prince.”
Right he was, right he was. But, Sunburst continued, but legally, his Majesty was the most powerful thing in the kingdom. With great paperwork came great power. Sure, his name was that of a knight, his title said he was a prince, but Shining Armor was a king.
And once you’re a king, that’s all you’re going to be.
“You can’t find your daughter.”
And to this, Shining Armor said nothing.
The Crystal Empire was a land of stone and ice, and its cold rains forced hearts to harden. Misery was accepted as a fact of life, and tragedy was merely a bleaker spot on an already bleak background. They were used to the cold, and if they needed it, they knew where to find warm.
Shining Armor had always found warmth in his daughter.
But now Flurry Heart was cold to the touch.
Sunburst was a smart stallion. He was an erudite, an intellectual. He knew of things others didn’t dare to imagine. This was the reason why Shining Armor had asked for help.
Stories, old stories, were not a mystery for His Majesty. He had been a Prince long ago, he had been a knight, and he had lived his own fairytale. But see, this was different. He knew he wasn’t supposed to get his daughter back, but that didn’t matter, because he was getting his daughter back.
He was going to save Flurry Heart.
Because nothing else was acceptable.
Sunburst tried to talk, but Shining Armor shut him up with a look. “You,” he said, “I need you because you know stories. You know old magic. You know who took my daughter.”
And Sunburst knew.
It still was impossible to rescue her, mind you, but it was rather clear who had taken her. She was a Princess. Never mind the specifics—fairytales are always the same. There’s only one monster vile enough to steal a baby from her parents.
“Your Majesty,” Sunburst said. “We’re dealing with a Dragon.”
When facing a devastated Cadance, Princess Twilight Sparkle cried with her. Tears don’t heal all wounds, but at least they disinfect them.
She arrived as soon as she knew, which had been extremely soon—“when in doubt, call your sibling,” that was the family motto. And Cadance thanked her, but she still felt unsafe.
They had come at night, she explained, and that was the worst part.
Both she and Shining Armor had been sleeping in the room next to the Royal Baby Chambers, and yet, nopony had seen a thing. They only noticed Flurry Heart was gone in the morning.
Princess Mi Amore Cadenza would never feel safe in the Crystal Palace, not anymore.
And Twilight, who also lived in a crystal palace on her own, heard this and realized something.
It is said that the best way to hide a tree is to plant it in a forest, but Twilight Sparkle had lived next to the Everfree long enough to understand that was a lie. Every tree is unique, and there’s always somepony who can tell the difference.
So she looked at Cadance, and said, “they stole the Royal Baby.”
If Twilight thought about Flurry Heart as her niece, she could only think of the little foal with big eyes and a beautiful baby laughter. But if she thought of a Royal Baby, then the word “Royal” was big enough, shiny enough, to derive attention from the “Baby” bit and get that heavy weight off her chest. It made her more objective. It made her notice the strange little details.
And there were a lot of strange little details.
“Thing is,” she continued, “thing is, they stole the Royal Baby even though the Crystal Palace is heavily guarded. But nopony saw a thing? Even though your daughter is never left alone? Nopony noticed?”
And Cadance said “no.”
Cadance said, “the Crystal Guards saw nothing, they were as surprised as we were.”
Twilight mused on this.
They were obviously dealing with a master thief. How to fool a thousand guards?
Twilight Sparkle knew Flurry Heart, in that clear way only unconditional love brings. She did not understand many things of the current situation, but one thing was obvious to her: Flurry Heart’s spirit animal was a chimpanzee playing the bagpipe. She had the face of an angel and the lungs of a wrathful god. Her voice made thunder feel inadequate.
There was no way the kidnapper had stolen her without making a noise. There was no way the guards hadn’t heard the baby crying. Everyone could hear Flurry Heart’s cry. Everyone.
It is said that the best way to hide a tree is to plant it in the forest, but Twilight knew this was a lie. Every tree is unique, and there’s always somepony who can tell the difference.
No. The best way to hide a tree is to burn it down, and scatter the ashes.
“If they didn’t hear her, it’s because they weren’t there. Something took them away. Old magic is at work.”
There are no coincidences, although Fate likes to play dice. On that very moment, Twilight Sparkle wasn’t the only one to think about sound and silence, or about Flurry Heart’s cacophonic nature. And the reason for this was one and the same:
While the cave was full of noise, it was still completely silent.
The source of the noise was obviously Flurry Heart’s essence, who by this point wasn’t so much screaming as performing an a capella cover of the Big Bang. Side Step had foolishly believed that stealing the baby would be the hardest part of the kidnapping, not realizing that a baby’s essence is nothing but that: a baby, distilled. The purest form of baby. The abstract representation of an infant.
Which implied the abstract representation of a hissy fit, and Flurry Heart could fit the hissiest. If Hell has no fury like a scorned woman, it’s only because Hell has no children on his own. Carrying a bomb would have been easier, because at least you know the bomb can only go off once.
And yet, Side Step couldn’t help but notice, yet the cave was completely silent.
Because she could hear Flurry Heart, of course she could, but the sound came to her muffled. Her mind couldn’t exactly pick it up—it was like trying to have a conversation while loud music goes off in the background, only there was no music, only quietness.
Deafening quietness, and only now did Side Step really understand the meaning of those two words together. It was suffocating. The cave wanted to be silent. The cave absorbed whatever noise dared to cross its insides, consumed it and turned it into nothingness.
There were no echoes. There was only the cave.
Oddly enough, Flurry Heart didn’t seem to mind it. She was crying, but that’s all babies did most of the time. She didn’t seem to have problems breathing, like Side Step. She didn’t have to feel an odd pressure on her entire body, and hot needles in her chest, like Side Step.
She didn’t feel like she was dying.
Like Side Step.
Then again, Flurry Heart also hadn’t stolen an innocent child and ruined somepony’s life forever and betrayed all she stood for and stained her morals forever. So maybe that was her trick.
Wicked smart on the baby’s part, that one. One had to give it to her.
It felt like a long walk through the cave, mainly because it was. Side Step had not been built for walking—she was more suited to waddling, or perhaps rolling, if the slope was steep enough—and that, plus the strange tightness of her chest, made it hard for her to navigate the cavernous space. But she continued, with that determination that is only born out of hope, or its lack thereof.
She had a clear goal in mind; that helped. The Meta Dragon knows all stories work the same, and even if they don’t know it, the characters move to the beat like professional dancers. Side Step might not want to walk through the cave, but she would anyway. Flurry Heart had to arrive to the end of it.
What laid at the end of the cave, though? Side Step wasn’t sure. Side Step wasn’t sure about what was at the start of the cave, even—and she made sure not to think about it, because it still gave her a headache to remember how she’d ended up in there.
But she had a suspicion of sorts, because there’s only so far one can go without learning how to learn. In truth, the cave had no start and no end. The cave existed for its own sake—because in old stories, it’s in a dark, silent cave that the monster lives. It’s in there where the Dragon has its lair.
The actual, physical cave did not matter as much as the essence of the cave. That’s probably why Flurry Heart didn’t feel the pressure—because the essence of a baby feels at home in the essence of a cave. But Side Step was a mare whole, and so, her body rejected it.
She had to continue, however. For as long as the story—the Dragon—wanted. Flurry Heart couldn’t lay in the middle of the cave; she had to wait for her Prince at the right place, wherever that was.
Time passed.
Long walks—long waddles—are awful when you have a conscience, because they give you time to think. Side Step could have thought of many things, but brains are treacherous creatures, and so hers focused on the very last thing she needed at the moment.
She thought of the baby laughing.
Something had broken, back then, at the Royal Baby Chambers. Side Step had done well, relatively speaking, until the very last moment—she had not let feelings get in the way, and her determination, while weak, hadn’t wavered. But then the baby had laughed, and suddenly that was a baby no more, that was an actual pony, first name Flurry, last name Heart, middle name You’re Going To Regret This Until You Die, Plum Pudding.
It was harder to breathe, now.
Side Step had no family, but Plum Pudding had siblings. A lot of siblings. All farmers did—when you lived off the land, you developed a lot of stamina, and the nights were long and boring. Might as well do something.
She had taken care of them all in her time, because she was the elder. And she had hated each and every single one of them, in that special way only siblings can hate. She would have died for them.
Now that she thought about it, Flurry Heart was pretty much the same age as little Squeaky Wheel, wasn’t she?
The Crystal Prince and Princess, waking up to see that their daughter was no more. The little kid, growing up without a family. An entire Empire crying a child’s loss. A child. Just for the sake of having an adventure.
Her steps all but stopped by this point, as she looked far ahead. There was no end to the cave.
What bothered Side Step was that, well, nothing in that reasoning was new to her. She’d known everything back there at the Royal Baby Chambers, but she still had stolen Flurry Heart. Play victim all you want, Side Step, but when push came to shove, you chose yourself over a baby.
Did she regret it? Yes, she did. But regret was useless, now, wasn’t it? Too late to go back now.
The certainty of it—the fact that she didn’t want this anymore, and that she had noticed just late enough for it to not matter, loomed over her.
It was at this point that Side Step realized Flurry Heart was not crying anymore.
She was laughing again.
Farmers are usually not seen as especially bright. There are reasons to this: they follow old senseless traditions, don’t know how to read, and marry their cousins all the time.
But that means nothing.
What many don’t understand is that old traditions survived the passage of time for a reason. They don’t read that much because when you work the land from dawn to dusk, you learn different, more important things. And they marry their cousins because sometimes, cousins are just really really pretty.
Farmers might not be especially bright, but they sure are wise.
So Side Step, who until this moment had been swimming in self-deprecation, stopped and listened to Flurry Heart’s giggling. She noticed how even though the world was horrible, that sound was still wonderful.
A baby’s laugh is powerful, not for what it is, but for what it makes us remember. Family, warmth, love. Regrets. And all great lessons come from early age or old regret.
Side Step turned around, and faced the other side of the cave.
And then.
Even though it was impossible.
Even though it made no sense.
Even though she couldn’t have possibly heard it.
Thunder roared.
And it drowned the baby’s laugh.
Well then. I’m bleeding all over the page.
The Meta Dragon called me an idiot right before (quite literally) bringing the thunder and slicing me up into little sausages as an afterthought, and you know what? It was probably right. I interfered with the story again, but this time I was so obvious that it couldn’t help but notice. Side Step actually turned good.
Not too fairytale-y, for the Thief to become a good person. Sure, the hunter forgave Snow White and brought the evil stepmother a pig’s heart instead, but by then Snow White was out of the castle already, and she ended up eating the apple anyway, so look at how much that helped. Side Step changed the story a bit too much.
In other words: Busted! Hahah.
So.
I’m bleeding out.
I’m not dead yet—I think. I hope? Oh man, this is disheartening—but I’m not writing the words anymore. I was an author with no authority before this, but I still managed to fight the story in my own way, tweaking this and that, introducing Twilight, giving the Thief a personality, and so on.
Now? Now the Meta Dragon is taking no chances. This is my last message, and the only reason why I’m currently writing is because the Meta Dragon went away to grab a toothpick.
I’d say it’s up to the characters, but let’s be honest: in a story, the real villain isn’t the monster. It’s the author. The author is the one breaking the characters’ lives, changing the world as it pleases, pulling the strings of the puppets.
And now the author is the Meta Dragon.
So hear the baby laughing.
Because I can’t make you hear it again.
Thunder roared inside the cave. The earth trembled. Side Step screamed.
Something sharp went off in her brain, and her mouth tasted like iron. Her heart thumped faster than ever.
It wasn’t thunder that she had heard. It had been a roar, a sound full of fury and hate. The ground under her hooves melted, her vision became red. She remembered who she was working for, and she finally understood what had been waiting for her at the other side of the cave.
Side Step forgot about Flurry Heart, and her shame, and how the baby had been laughing once more. Because old regrets might inspire great lessons, but it’s fear what stays with you.
Thieves are to steal Princesses, not to return them. Old rules, old magic.
The last thing Side Step ever saw before burning up was a big mouth opening, and a lot of teeth.
Twilight showed a lot of teeth, too, when she smiled at Sunburst outside the Crystal Archive. Thinking is a lonely job, but great minds work well together. Now, the puzzle was solved.
To steal the purest form of a princess, only the purest form of a thief would do. And only fairytales dealt with essences, because that’s what they were: reality, distilled.
The original fairytales had no Guards to protect the baby, because security measures hadn’t been invented yet and everybody was busy starving to death and dealing with the plague. That’s why kidnappings had been so common, and that’s why, that very same night, the Guards had simply not existed outside Flurry Heart’s chambers.
So of course she had made a lot of noise when kidnapped—it’s just that the Guards weren’t there to hear them, they had been taken out during the scene. There was no story without a stolen Princess. The kidnapper had followed the rules of the narrative, and old rules brought old magic.
“Also, we’re dealing with a Dragon,” Sunburst added. “It’s always a Dragon.”
This point had been troublesome. Twilight had been somewhat skeptical towards this theory, due to her having lived with an actual dragon for most of her life. Spike might have been a little rascal, true, but as far as she knew he had never kidnapped a baby.
Ah, but had she asked him directly?
Well. No, she admitted. She hadn’t.
So that point was moot, in Sunburst’s opinion. And what’s more: the Crystal Archive had an almost endless backlog of old books, and after reading most of them, they had found out a Dragon was always the bad guy. Twilight might not like it, but that was the truth.
Indeed, Twilight still didn’t like it. But there was more to it—turns out, old writers hadn’t been exactly original when it came to plotlines.
"This is what I found out,” she explained. “The King sees his daughter stolen by a Thief. Later, a Prince appears, to rescue and wed the Princess. There's a Wise One to teach him, a Witch to tempt him, and in the end, a Dragon to fight. And it always ends in blood."
They had found the template, the guidelines.
It was interesting how Cadance had no role in the story, because Princesses tended to be motherless. It was hard to survive childbirth in the old times, what with medicine being more of an opinion back then. Perhaps that’s why it was so hard for her to deal with Flurry Heart’s disappearance—she was literally not made for this.
Or maybe it was just a rational response to your baby disappearing. Mystery for the ages, really.
“But,” Twilight said, “that’s not just it. The villain is following the narrative, so what about us? Do we need to? Or can we just go for the Dragon and get Flurry Heart back?”
No, they couldn’t, Sunburst said. That was the whole point. The Guards hadn’t been there because they didn’t follow the story—if something didn’t fit the template of the traditional fairytale, then that something plain didn’t exist. Trying to cheat would be impossible. The story had to be followed.
Twilight gave this a little bit of thought.
She found it quite silly.
The world didn’t work like that. It was reality that inspired fiction, not the opposite. Fairytales didn’t just happen that way—someone had to force them into reality. So while somepony might indeed have used that old magic to kidnap Flurry Heart, that didn’t mean that they were bound to follow the same rules. Why would they? Old magic wouldn’t work for them, because it would ask to wait for a Prince.
So better not to do that, really. Way more reasonable to just go there and get Flurry Heart themselves, old rules be darned.
(And her voice echoed with what little remained of a dead writer’s failed rebellion).
Sunburst rolled his eyes.
(And he moved like a Dragon picking up the slack).
In fact, they weren’t even following the narrative that well, Twilight said. If Sunburst was the Wise One, as he was seemingly implying, then what was Twilight? The Prince? She’d love to be the Prince and rescue her niece, but as far as she knew, she had no intentions of wedding her. They weren’t that kind of Royal Family.
Sunburst frowned. “Yes,” he said. “But…”
Twilight wasn’t done. More to argue: the Witch. That one was supposed to appear with the Wise One, and there was no sign of her. Unless, she guessed, Twilight was the Witch, somehow? But she wasn’t tempting anypony either. Again: not that kind of Royal Family.
Sunburst frowned. What did that mean, then? That the villains were not following the story after all? ‘Cause that would have been a wonderful thing to know a couple hours later, before they spent seven hours reading old dusty books by candlelight.
Twilight acknowledged this with a nod. Then she said “not exactly,” defeating the purpose of said nod.
This is how she put it: the evil Dragon had followed the narrative; they knew that because the Guards hadn’t been there at night. They didn’t fit the scene, so they disappeared. That was a no-brainer. But old magic like that implied old rules, and old rules can’t be broken.
And that was a double-edged sword. The Dragon had to follow those rules. It was bound to them. They were not. So it was as easy as ignoring the narrative and catching the Dragon by surprise, knowing that it would be waiting for a Prince. That way—
Sunburst stopped.
Well, he said, slowly, as if careful to word his thoughts, in case they ran away if he talked too fast. Actually, Twilight was right. This looked easier.
Easier. Not wiser. Because in fairytales, the easy way out was always wrong, and always presented by the Witch. Who tempted the Prince. And opposed the Wise One—Sunburst.
Which would mean that Twilight could be the Witch. This, Sunburst said, raising his hoof to make sure Twilight didn’t interrupt her, would leave Cadance as the odd one out.
She didn’t fit the narrative, true. But the last time something hadn’t fit the narrative, the Guards had stopped existing. Now, sure, that had been just for a scene—because afterwards, it didn’t matter if they weren’t there anymore. But Cadance would be the odd one out forever, because Princesses plain had no mothers. She had to disappear from the narrative completely.
Silence fell between them.
There were no Queens. Only Princesses.
And the best way to hide a tree is to burn it down, and scatter the ashes.
As on cue, a flash of light came from the Crystal Palace, and then the sound of breaking glass.
Sunburst and Twilight looked at each other.
They ran.
She’d seen this coming, Cadance noted as she ran away. Sadly, that did not mean she’d been prepared.
The Crystal Palace was in absolute, deafening silence. A silence so loud it drowned any other noise—Cadance felt as if she was in a dream, running underwater, moving at a painfully slow pace. She knocked down a table, and the jar resting on it broke into a million pieces with the stealth of a falling feather.
It was oddly hard to breathe, now.
She kept running.
It wasn’t a pony chasing her—it was a chunk of pony-shaped space. It had appeared out of seemingly nowhere, prefaced only by the sudden lack of noise and guards anywhere in the Palace.
Then she had turned around, and the Thief was there.
It’s not easy to be put in charge of others—there’s wisdom in being a ruler, and there’s wisdom in being a parent. It’s something that you pick up as you go, and some might mistake it for an instinct, a gut feeling to trust when reason alone can’t help you.
And it’s a wonderful tool to know if a situation is entirely hopeless.
She found out she was out of places to run to. She knew the Crystal Palace like the back of her hoof, but somehow, she’d been cornered at the top of the Western Tower. The only way out was a window to fly through—but the Thief was in front of it.
Cadance faced it.
In a previous life, she thought, the Thief might have been a mare. The kind of mare that laughed loudly at parties and cried with every sad song and knew how to bake a mean pie. Or—Cadance looked at the Thief’s waistline—a dozen mean pies.
But she was forced to use the past tense when talking about it, because that wasn’t a pony anymore. It didn't seem to be breathing. Its legs moved in a stiff, unnatural way.
And what remained of its eyes, burned to a crisp, were completely fixated on Cadance as it walked towards her.
A little voice in the back of her head talked about facing death with dignity. About standing tall and mighty, and looking at the abomination straight ahead as it killed her. About not giving it the pleasure of losing her honor in the face of danger.
It was a really reasonable little voice.
So Cadance screamed bloody murder, grabbed the closest blunt object she could find—a potted plant—and threw it with all her strength. It bounced against the Thief’s head with a heavy crunching noise. It barely slowed the beast down.
Only then did Cadance truly realize that she was going to die in there.
After thirty seconds of both magic and brute strength, Twilight gave up getting in the Crystal Palace. Nothing worked. They were locked out. She then moved on to Plan B, which involved hyperventilating and sobbing hard. Equally productive, but twice as cathartic.
In the distance, faintly, they could hear the silence filling the void of Cadance screaming. They tried to break a window, and it was useless. Sunburst joined Plan B too.
The problem was the narrative. Princesses always had two traits: they had no mothers, and they were kidnapped. This meant that, to fit the story, Cadance needed either to die or to disappear forever—which, quite honestly, wasn’t so different.
This meant no witnesses. It wasn’t part of the fairytale per se, it was more like correcting a mistake so the story they were living could happen, so reality hadn’t warped enough for them to be oblivious at the whole affair.
It was warped enough, though, to lock them away from the Palace. Cadance was a stranger to the tale, but Twilight and Sunburst were characters, actively trying to change how the story worked from the inside out, and that was like swimming up a waterfall.
So the Crystal Palace was completely empty, and completely locked up, aside from Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and whatever was up there making her screams be silent. That’s what the narrative demanded.
Old rules, old magic.
“It’s hopeless,” Sunburst eventually said. “Completely hopeless. Nothing is more powerful than the narrative.”
That’s all that Twilight needed to hear to move on to Plan C: follow the family motto.
The potted plant had bounced off the Thief’s head. The table the potted plant had been resting on did the same, and ditto with the torch, the rug, and Cadance’s left slipper.
Now there was nothing else to throw at the Thief, what little magic Cadance had didn’t seem to work, and she had really run out of options.
She never stopped screaming. There’s a certain dignity in a quiet death, but only if we can choose it ourselves, and Cadance despised the artificial silence that was being forced on her. So she hollered in a way that made it clear she was Flurry Heart’s mother, and then she did the only thing she could do.
She charged.
The Thief’s head looked broken, almost squashed. Its movements were jerkier than ever, and its legs looked weakened from forcing all that weight to waddle through the entire Crystal Palace. And while Cadance herself wasn’t the most athletic of mares, having wings made it surprisingly easy to gain momentum when running.
So she didn’t bounce against the Thief.
She was just immediately smashed against a wall.
It was more than mass to it, Cadance managed to think despite the mist that filled her mind. There had been something unnaturally magical about the way the Thief had stopped her dead in her tracks and thrown her like a filthy sock. Just like there was something unnaturally magical about the silence, or the Palace’s emptiness.
The Thief took another step towards her. It looked unstoppable, a force of nature. Cadance didn’t know about the narrative, but she was aware of the existence of some abstract yet immense power fighting against her every effort.
It was time to give up now.
So she kicked, and bit, and punched, and fought with all she had when the Thief got close enough—and when that didn’t work, she fought twice as hard, even though it felt like punching a wall, even though the blood on her hooves was all hers.
The Thief didn’t mind Cadance’s efforts. It just raised a hoof, and then struck down. One, two, three times.
Cadance fell, again. There was nothing for her to do but lay down and wait for the inevitable, now.
So she stood up, and tried to kick, to punch, to bite again.
The Thief’s hoof went up, and then it struck down. One, two, three times. Cadance’s leg cracked and bent the wrong way.
Her efforts were all futile. There was no point fighting against the narrative. Fairytales are timeless things that work by fear, and Cadance was afraid now. Of dying, of not seeing her baby anymore, of giving up and having no hope.
There’s wisdom in being a ruler. She didn’t know what was going on, but she learned quickly. Here, Cadance understood her role here was to be alone, and to die. All characters do what they have to do in a fairytale, and it always ends in blood.
Old magic.
Old rules.
The Thief’s hoof went up one last time.
The Palace was still completely silent. Cadance looked up, at the Thief’s face. Old magic, old rules. There was one old rule that she was really familiar with.
She smiled that roguish smile all mothers seem to have.
A white blur, made silent by the unnatural magic that filled the Palace still, came from the right of her vision field, screaming in a way that made it clear that he was Flurry Heart’s father.
The narrative had asked for the Palace to be empty. The narrative had asked for the Thief to be unstoppable. The narrative was powerful.
But in his kingdom, there’s nothing as powerful as the king.
Shining Armor had no wings to build up momentum, but he was an athletic pony. The Thief didn’t seem to mind, almost as if nothing could damage it, nothing could stop it, but Shining Armor managed to at least push it.
Across the corridor.
And through the window.
They were at the top of the Western Tower. It was a really long fall.
The Meta Dragon feeds on stories. And while eating them bit by bit is never as filling as swallowing it whole, the truth is, overtaking and killing an author always makes one hungry.
Side Step had failed, but that still meant she had finished her character arc. Her personal story was done. And she was well-cooked. So the Meta Dragon made a choice.
A hole appeared on the ground, right under the dying Thief. It was a hole so empty, so void, that it looked full. It was the essence of a hole. It led to the Dragon’s lair.
What little remained of Side Step fell through it.
An explosion of broken glass, a shadow falling from the top of the Western Tower, and Twilight Sparkle realized her brother had committed murder right in front of her.
In such a state of mind, it was actually less of a shock when she saw that Shining followed the act by grabbing his wife and jumping after the corpse. Acts that look so senseless are usually following a plan.
Sunburst and Twilight followed them down the hole.
They soon wished they hadn’t.
The fall felt short, and when they landed, they landed hard. After getting back their senses, the first thing they all noticed was their surroundings. Black rock, full of dust and fluorescent moss, that made it possible to see through the absolute darkness. It smelled like water and death, and there was no exit in sight.
Sunburst was the one who said it first, and his voice was full of regret. They were in a cave. Or rather, they were in the essence of a cave.
The others didn’t listen to him.
They were too busy staring at the thing next to them.
A thousand teeth, yellow, broken, full of dents and yet still sharp. Eyes like embers, hot with fire and hate. Claws like black diamonds. A deadly grin.
It was a beast too big for the mind to comprehend; the cave around it was endless, infinite, and yet it seemed small in comparison. The scales were gray and old, its metallic shine lost long ago, although not its sturdiness.
The Dragon stood tall, on four legs, old leathery legs open wide in its back, and the world seemed to stop and stare. It grabbed the Thief’s corpse with one of its massive claws, and then there was a blur, and the body disappeared.
Sunburst felt his chest tighten. The Beast was horrible enough to be beautiful. And there was something at its feet.
Then, the Dragon breathed.
And there was fire.
Side Step woke up, even though she was dead. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
Around her, endless white. She felt like she was floating. She remembered the baby she had stolen, and the Dragon.
She wondered if things could get worse.
Then, she noticed a shadow in the distance.
What followed could only be described as a horrible game of tag.
There’s a common misconception that mandates all huge beasts be slow. The smaller creatures see the big monsters and know that they are stronger, so surely they’re dumb and clumsy, because otherwise life wouldn’t be fair.
But life’s a winner. Winners never play fair. Massive creatures imply massive muscles, massive muscles imply great momentum, and smaller creatures aren’t apex predators for a reason.
This—and something similar to “oh, come on”—was what went through Twilight’s mind when she saw the Dragon sweeping its arm and swatting her like a fly, possibly not breaking anything.
It got chaotic from there on.
Four little ponies, running and flying around desperately, and a Dragon playing with them. Giant wings flapping, fire burning, and Sunburst screaming really high.
Some blood spilled, but nopony died. Shining tripped, and Cadance saved his life with a mixture between a punch and a shove. Twilight remembered just in time how to teleport, and the Dragon’s teeth bit into nothing. Sunburst screamed even higher.
It was only after Twilight did break something that she thought about actually listening to what Sunburst was saying.
The Dragon wasn’t alone. Worse, the Dragon wasn’t moving—it was flapping its wings and sweeping its arms, and breathing fire, sure, but it hadn’t moved from the spot it’d been standing when they had fallen through the hole.
Because it wasn’t trying to kill them. It was trying to keep them away.
There was a small cage in the shape of a crib right under the Dragon. Inside, the silhouette of a sleeping Royal Baby.
The word “Royal” was big enough, shiny enough, to derive attention from the “baby” part and make it all feel less real. But in that moment, Twilight didn’t see a Royal Baby.
She saw Flurry Heart.
White fury, so hot it was cold. A cry with no words, Twilight barely noticing it came from her, and Cadance and Shining Armor noticed the small cage and the small figure sleeping inside.
They moved as one.
Side Step was floating, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t move around. Or maybe she could, but everything around her was a featureless blank void, so it was impossible to tell.
That is, featureless except for that shadow, that grew bigger by the second.
It started as little more than a spot. It was blurry, and Side Step thought it was black at first—but it wasn’t. It was just a mishmash of colors that made no sense. Soft orange, blue, deep red, brown.
And then it was gone. One moment it’d been there, the next it wasn’t—but right before disappearing, a voice came to her, and made her skin crawl.
It said, “don’t look behind you.”
So of course, she turned around.
And of course, the Meta Dragon was there.
This time, Twilight remembered she could teleport from the get-go.
The Dragon moved fast, claws meeting her in midair, but Twilight just phased through its arm and got close enough to Flurry Heart to be slapped away by one gigantic wing. On the left, Cadance had trouble running, but she was good at teamwork and pure adrenaline made her a fast flier. When the Dragon tried to bite her, Shining Armor grabbed a rock.
Cadance dodged. Shining was there in time.
The Dragon moved back, spitting teeth and blood and yelling with rage.
The game of tag turned into three angry wasps chasing a dumb ox. Cadance and Twilight flew and phased in and out of sight constantly, and whenever the Dragon moved too quick for them, Shining Armor moved.
He was slower and weaker than anypony else in the cave, but he’d been a soldier.
So when the Dragon managed to hit Cadance, Shining Armor broke one of its fingers. When the Dragon managed to trap Twilight with its broken teeth, Shining Armor went for the eyes. When the Dragon tried to kill them, he made sure it failed.
Then, in perfect harmony:
A loop to the right, and Cadance drove the Dragon’s attention away.
A flash of light from her horn, and Twilight blinded the Dragon’s eyes.
And Shining Armor, making no sound, quick as thought, ran for Flurry Heart—
—and flames made him jump back and curse.
The Dragon moved in a blur, and two seconds later, Cadance and Twilight fell to the ground, too. Twilight had a broken wing. Cadance had a broken everything.
Dragon fire surrounded Flurry Heart, and the Beast above her. The three Royal Ponies got up, ignoring their pain…
And then—
Plaf!
—Sunburst slapped his Prince.
The sound echoed through the silent cave. Cadance, Twilight, and Shining Armor got off their adrenaline high immediately.
“Snap. Out. Of. It,” Sunburst said through gritted teeth.
They were doing nothing but puting themselves in danger. Cadance could barely stand. Twilight was in such a state of shock it was a miracle she hadn’t passed out yet. And Shining Armor, who could have used his military training to be the voice of reason, was risking his entire family for the sake of revenge.
If they had come prepared, this would have been different—the Elements, some kind of magical artifact, a Dragon-hunting spell, whatever, and this entire fight could have been easy. But they had nothing with them, and even the dumbest of oxen can smash three wasps if it gets angry enough. The only thing they were going to do was make sure Flurry Heart’s entire family died in front of her.
“That thing has my daughter!”
Sunburst replied to Cadance’s scream with a cold glare. Yes, he said. The Dragon had Flurry Heart. So he suggested that they actually try to actually do something to rescue her, instead of wasting time and energy.
Twilight knew what Sunburst was going to say before he said it, and bared her teeth. No. He was wrong. They were not going to go away and wait for a Prince. They were making progress. They were going to rescue Flurry Heart. They had hurt the Dragon already!
And to this, Sunburst squinted, pointed, and asked, “have you?”
Behind him, the wall of flames died down. The Dragon was visible again.
Sunburst spoke the terrible truth.
“Old magic.”
Fear, pain, and teeth. Side Step’s afterlife ended quickly, with nopony to cry for her.
The Meta Dragon devoured her story.
“Old rules.”
The flames went out completely.
Like an author who takes a break before coming back to write, like a hungry beast after devouring its prey, or like a devil straight out of hell—never mind the comparison, the Dragon was spotless.
Its eyes were healed.
Its fingers were unbroken.
Its mouth was twisted in an evil grin.
“We have to run,” Sunburst said, simply. “We can’t rescue Flurry Heart. The narrative won’t let us. Only a Prince can rescue the Princess.”
The Dragon breathed.
A circle of flames surrounded them. They couldn’t move.
Desperate, they turned on each other.
Twilight said, no. Flurry Heart was right there, she was right in front of them, and they wouldn’t get out of here without her. They didn’t have to follow the rules of a story written thousands of years ago!
Sunburst said, yes. There was no choice, they were part of the story already. In fairytales, the wise choices are never easy. Didn’t Twilight get it? She was tempting Shining Armor and Cadance, she was opposing the Wise One, she was following the narrative right now! Flurry Heart was—
—about to get rescued! Twilight bared her teeth, spark of anger in her eye. Because rules can be broken, and reality doesn’t work like fairytales! Spike had never kidnapped a princess, Flurry Heart had a mother, and Twilight wasn’t a Witch! They had to rescue Flurry Heart, they had to at least try!
“No, we don’t! I’m telling you, we have to do the wise thing!”
“And I’m telling you, we need to do the right thing!”
The Dragon breathed again. Fire filled the circle of flames. Shining and Cadance looked at each other.
Time slowed down.
There’s wisdom in being a ruler, and there’s wisdom in being a parent. They had to make a choice. Rescuing Flurry Heart looked hopeless—the Dragon was too big, too strong, too fast. By trying to rescue her, they were putting their entire family at risk. But by choosing the safe option, they were abandoning her.
This is what Sunburst and Twilight were asking them. Choose wisely, or choose right: the rest of the world, or your daughter?
The parent said: their daughter was their entire world.
The ruler said: that is not the question you should be asking.
The heart of the issue didn’t lay on the “how”, it laid on the “why”. Why had Flurry Heart been kidnapped? Because that’s what the fairytale had asked? That might have been an answer, but there was more to it. Because, in essence, what is a fairytale?
A fairytale is a fable. A fiction. A narrative.
Sunburst had said it before: they weren’t dealing with a kidnapping. They were dealing with a story.
Stories, old stories, were not a mystery for Their Majesties. Long ago, he had been a Knight, she had been a Princess, and they had lived their own fairytale. Now they were a King and a Queen, and once you’re a King, that’s all you’ll ever going to be. They couldn’t defeat the Dragon.
Then, amidst the flames and the Dragon’s roar, a new sound arose. Impossible, senseless, something like out of this world. Something like the remains of a long dead author, a seed planted long ago, for this exact moment.
Right when Cadance and Shining Armor were about to give up, the baby laughed.
The Meta Dragon knew fear.
It thought about the Death of the Author.
The characters it was controlling, they weren’t theirs. They never had been. Because the story had been started as written by Aragón, and some rules had been set early on, and it had to obey those. Just because you’re the one writing it doesn’t mean that you know what the story is about.
And worse—Aragón was dead, but his essence was still around. The Meta Dragon could smell it, it was sure it had caught a peek of his essence speaking to Side Step right before the Thief’s demise.
That’s why the Meta Dragon knew fear. Because even though it’d been in control all this time, it was losing grip of the narrative. It didn’t understand what was happening.
It tried to get it back. It roared, as hard as it could, and it sounded like thunder.
But the sound was drowned by the baby’s laughter.
A sound that’s powerful because of what it makes us remember.
They had lived their own fairytale, Shining Armor and Cadance. Long ago, they had been the heroes fighting against the villains, and they had earned their happy ending. Now they were older, and King and Queen, and they couldn’t fight the monsters.
But that didn’t matter, because they didn’t have to fight the monsters.
Time went back to normal. Twilight yelled and cast a spell, and the fire didn’t burn them. A scream, a leap of faith, and they made it out of the circle of flames. The Dragon saw this, and charged, teeth-first.
Cadance could fly. Shining Armor could jump like a father with a winged child.
All great lessons come with early age or old regrets. Now that they could look back at their younger years, Shining and Cadance understood something Twilight and Sunburst—who loved books too much, and had no children—had missed entirely.
They were dealing with a story. And in a story, the real villain isn’t the monster. It’s the author.
So when the Dragon charged, they charged back. But they didn’t aim for its teeth, or its eyes.
They aimed for the strings that controlled the puppet.
The Meta Dragon felt something pulling from him.
Fear turned into panic, as understanding dawned on it.
I had been too obvious, and so the Meta Dragon killed me—or so it thought. But what if that hadn’t been the case? What if I had been subtle enough to look obvious?
It’s easy to write the baby laughing and the Thief not being evil anymore, but there’s more nuance to this. Write the characters in a certain way, and they’ll always act the same. Give them a strong enough motivation, and not even the story will manage to stop them.
Every rookie author has been through it—the feeling that the characters are seizing control, moving on their own. It’s a little exhilarating, and a little scary.
The strings pulled harder. The Meta Dragon tried to keep its pace.
If you humanize the tragedy, if you make it terrible enough, the characters will be affected. It’s all in the tone, in the way everything is made. Steal parts of a daughter, and the parents won’t stop until whoever’s responsible has partially paid, in full.
It becomes a problem, then, when the characters know they’re in a story. Because then, you’re the one responsible, being the author and all. And with that determination? They’ll understand this, eventually. And you’ll be sorry.
So thank you, Meta Dragon, for taking my place and stepping into the trap I put for myself. That was really nice of you.
Now, if you don’t mind, darling, I see that you’re busy being dragged down, so I think I’ll take over once more. Dead men tell no tales, but what can I say? I’m, in essence, a writer. I can’t stop now.
Just be thankful I don’t kick the Meta Dragon’s arse as it goes down.
Not a roar of rage, but a roar of pain. The flames died down. The cave flickered and disappeared, leaving them in an open field under the blue sky.
And when Shining and Cadance pulled from the strings once more, the Dragon changed, and it became something else.
It became the Meta Dragon.
Smaller. Thinner. Its scales were beige and soft like flesh, its teeth weren’t broken but sharp and white. It had eyes that couldn’t see in the dark, and small claws made to fight against weaker creatures.
Its presence was lesser.
The Meta Dragon wasn’t being helped by the narrative. This was no Dragon, and there was no Prince destined to fight it. It cowered in fear, moving like a scavenger, not like a predator. Moving like the mastermind of a story. Moving like a defeated author.
Shining and Cadance understood that they were in front of the Beast that had taken their daughter. For real, this time.
They fell over it.
Crimson blood stained the grass.
Hear the baby laughing. Look at the blue sky, breathe the fresh air, notice how the oppressive silence is not there anymore. Seize the moment when the narrative loses all its power, the fairytale itself defeated, this time.
But don’t mind their Majesties, look elsewhere. Twilight picked up Flurry Heart, but then she had to look away. Sunburst couldn’t keep the food in his stomach, and covered the baby’s eyes to protect her innocence.
It’s impossible to take the author’s preferences away from a story—and as they say, “Write What You Know”. Some might call me needlessly gruesome, and there would be truth in that statement.
But I am not a bitter man, and this has nothing to do with revenge. I just remember the old fairytales, and have a deep respect for the classics. That’s why the Meta Dragon chose me.
It’s not my fault that my father went into so much detail with the disemboweling scenes.
And thus we arrive to the end of the story.
Time has changed fairytales. Now they’re safe, harmless; they always have a happy ending. But that’s not how they used to be. Fairytales were to inspire wonder in children, yes, but wonder was an afterthought. In the old times, fairytales had one single purpose.
Fairytales were to inspire fear.
Because it’s fear what stays with you.
But I’m a soft man, and I have my weaknesses. It was with a heavy heart that I told this story, and I can’t help but be glad now that it’s over.
Of course, the ending can hardly be called happy. Side Step met her demise, and she knew nothing but sadness—and innocent was corrupted and killed by a monster.
Also, I’m dead.
As in, actually dead. For real.
What is an essence, when you get to it? Reality distilled, they said before. It’s the core of a person, the true self—you might as well call it a soul. If that’s the case, that makes me a ghost, so no wonders this doesn’t feel like a happy ending. Technically, I count as a monster.
Spirits must go and never return; this is the end of my writing career. But ironically, a question haunts me: Will the Meta Dragon come back? Was its death as final as mine, or is its essence still intact?
I don’t think it’ll come back. Only a Thief can steal a Princess, only a Prince can kill a Dragon, and only a Meta Dragon can eat them all. The Beast itself was its own essence, nothing but soul, to be able to feed on stories. And if that was destroyed, there’s no turning point.
But therein lays the tragedy:
The characters don’t know this.
Fairytales were to inspire fear, because it’s fear what stays with you. Cadance will wake up screaming, some nights, after dreaming of shadows going unseen and unheard, sneaking into her baby’s chamber. Sunburst won’t enjoy fairytales like he used to, not anymore. Twilight will feel restless whenever she looks, in the distance, at the Crystal Empire. And Shining…
Shining will suffer the most.
He still fears for his daughter, and he still dislikes fairytales, but there’s something more to him. Late during the evenings, he would think of the Thief and shiver.
It’s never easy, to take a life. You remember their eyes as they died. They come to you when you’re alone.
Then again, it could have been worse—the Thief didn’t have eyes, so Shining Armor mostly remembered two burnt spots that held little emotional value. And he had taken her life just as she’d finished beating up Cadance, so that was another point against feeling melancholic when it came to that particular murder.
It was still a murder, mind you. It was still horrible. He still had it worse than the rest.
But all in all, it could have been worse.
And hey, there’s nobody but me to thank for that. I’m the one who set that up. I scorched an innocent mare’s eyes, I beat up this guy’s wife, and then I died. Weird how that actually makes me the hero.
But you know what?
Even though I’m dead, even though they’re scarred—Flurry Heart made it. The piece of her that was missing came back to her, and now she’s whole again.
I remember the stories my father told me, and the questions my mother answered. I think of the lessons they taught me, and the ones I taught myself. If I’m really quiet, I can hear the baby laughing. I know she will laugh again, in the future. I know she has no reasons to stop anymore. I know the thunder won’t come back for her.
And I feel glad. Because, I think, some things are worth dying for.
The Monster is dead. The Princess is safe.
It could have been better, but I think I did well as it is. There are many ways to say good-bye, but what can I say? I died as I lived: trying my best. And with questionable results.
But that’s all in the past. Now it’s time for me to go.
So I ask you to remember the old fairytales in my place, if you don’t mind. I ask you to not go out without putting up a fight. I thank you, very much, for your time.
And I bid you farewell.
And have a good night.
Author's Note
While it may not seem like it, this story is my way of paying homage to Jorge Luis Borges, a writer that I always loved. Also to Terry Pratchett, a writer that I always loved, too.
Their writing styles have NOTHING to do with each other, so that might explain why this is so weird.
(Also, I'm not leaving the fandom, or dead -- don't worry, this is just a story).
