1.1 The Mare Tranquilitatus
What hath night to do with sleep?
-John Milton
Sundown and eventide begins to flow. A bloody pulsar stars starrily out behind the lids. Nmm. Aye, there’s WILD hypnogogia, mnemonic inductions aside, but before you take slack to bed here’s your reality check: Phoebe, the stars all laid in her a shape. Eyes regaled with Trivia, Sin, principally Vice. Among the ponies called Lona, or Luna, the Star of the start of an evening. These seven names, and Princess. Now: awake.
Offbed. Tile floor she sallies - to looking-glass - and sure she dallies that booking pass. And what, when glassfacing, does the seven-named sister of the sun-setter see for her audience? Something regal for surecertain, but features in need of clearification, holes in telling, mars in lands, mares for oceans, black on white, the whole a stark suggestion of. A face, or cluster of somesort, a man's brow or perhaps a rabbit among children. Two eyes, for sure. A starry mane. Character; becoming. Herself? And is that shadow the malevolence to wither withers or the beneficence to weather weathers? Nmm. Whether withhers, tether dithers. She rips herself away.
Washroom, glassless. Toothbrushing. What will she do tonight? We’ve already said, she tells herself. The routine’s the important thing. Brush. There’s dreams to tend to, but she does that on instinct by now. Brush brush. Not much on the schedule, except eyeing the guards and taking the throne. Killing time. Brush brush brush. Ah! And what is it that brings the cry? That feeling tongue in her reflected darkness, backteeth -- an incisor on the bicusps of the evening! That unfamilial jag of the nighttime carnifex, felt or half-felt but equiprobably scandalizing. Sharp, grown soon, and nightmarish for sure. Not the tooth of a pony in the dark of her jaw. No, maw now, old wounds returning. Corruption's proof, fiendish failure! The moon has grown full of waiting! Nightmare Moon arrives! Claclatter.
Quick, away, before the thoughts take her! Luna rushes out from the chamber into palace proper. Lights out. The shadow trails behind her, in her, cast from mouthperch to the wall beyond. Down halls and down walls and then she rundown downfalls. Skid, trip! What’s above?
Celescelatrix! Glowing in nightlight, tired eyes smile down. “Luna. I was just retiring for the evening. Is something the matter?” And Luna at her Cellenial hooves, shaking off.
“No sister. We were simply feeling very... vigorous this night. The moon is full, after all.” No sister indeed, daymare against the nightmare soon, if not a way back to the moon. Going!
The lies don’t bridge a sisterbond. Knowing. “Did you have a bad dream?”
A bad wake will do. “No. We are in perfect health, sister.” To lie this close to bed is easy, but unsatisfying. Tiredness ushers Celerity. Questions pierce darkness toward piercing darkness no longer.
“Well, as long as you know that you can always talk to me.” Nuzzle. A thought of the Celebration in the Celestriarch’s eyes when Luna came offmoon homebound harmonious. Betrayer tooth. Betray the truth? Away before she sees the shadows! Snare? Spare! Beware!
“Of course, Celly.” Sin stares at the light of Celysium, unflinched at warmth. Hug.
“Well, then I’ll be in my room. Goodnight, Luna.” Then she trotted Celemnically to her sleep.
“Goodnight.” Nightnight in truth, but day’s for living. That was close.
Away, kenning. Not to the moon yet, but perhaps to canteralot in thought. Yes, astroll before th'astral. Out the window, takeoff!
