Heart of the Flame

I remember I was alone at home with an empty glass and a pile of books to keep me company, hiding from the brutish realities of our age and the oppressive heat of the swamp outside. It was time, I thought, for yet another reappraisal of my life. After far too long surrounded by books, dust and crumpled scribblings and paralysed by the deadly tedium of routine, adventure was calling, and it would not be denied. And when the call finally came, I was more than ready.

It had all started the way most interesting things do; with mind-numbing boredom, alleviated only by a combination of activity and copious consumption of ice-cold gin cocktails. It was a Friday afternoon in July of the 1965th Year of Celestia’s reign, a total of five years since the return of Princess Luna. It was sweltering hot at the time, as is usual for the horribly foetid climate of Neigh Orleans, and I was hunched over my desk, trying to make sense of a number of papers strewn haphazardly across my desk. If you’ve ever attempted to translate several-hundred year-old documents written in Ancient Unicornian while drinking, you’d know it’s up there with juggling knives while on a pogo-stick and swimming up a gator-infested swamp coated in peanut butter in the category of things you’re not supposed to be able to do.

Still, I had no other real choice. This was the summer, and that meant far more leisure time than anypony should ever have on their hooves. Don’t get me wrong, I like my vacations, but I’m a teacher, and no extra income for three months is a pain in the flank that only hardcore masochists should be able to endure. For all my sexual perversions, an enjoyment of more than minimal discomfort is not one of them. Or maybe it’s different if someone you’re into is making you do it, and not eighty-something school board members with a fetish for underpayment.

Speaking of sexual perversions, my kink for ancient languages was just starting to be fulfilled again, as the words on the pages in front of me started to make sense again and stop being squiggly lines that looked like a cross between Sumarian cuneiform and one of my History student’s napkin essay masterpieces. Or perhaps that was just the alcohol wearing off. Who knows? At any rate, I could actually try to read it now, jotting down copies of particular words and phrases into my trusty old notebook with corresponding translations.

My translations probably were not the best, I’ll admit, but at least I had copied the original words down correctly. My ‘other language’ grammar skills are fuzzy in the best of times, but my copying is impeccable. But that’s not the important part. The important part has only something to do with ancient languages, and nothing at all do with the papers on my desk on that sweltering summer afternoon. It involved, instead, a phone call I got a few minutes later, the high-pitched ringing sound startling me so badly I nearly pitched out of my chair and onto the floor.

After a few seconds of embarrassed flailing, I finally managed to pick up the phone and raise it to my ear. “Bronze Age speaking. How may I help you?”

A loud, insufferably irritating squealing emitted from the tiny little earpiece, and I almost reflexively tossed the phone across the room as if it were a thing possessed. Mercifully, I didn’t have to, though, as the squealing quickly turned to coherent, if excited, speech. “Bronze! It’s Petunia. You won’t believe this! There’s something I’ve got to show you this evening, if you’re free. Take the afternoon train to Ponyville; I’ll meet you at the station. This will all be worth your while, I promise!” Before I could get a word in, the call went silent.

I was left for a few minutes there in a state somewhere between confusion and curiosity. Petunia, an old friend of mine from Canterlot, never called me unless it was something important, much less asked me to meet her somewhere outside the city. She knew the only way to get me out of doors during the summer was some mad hunt for knowledge, generally in the form of some new archaeological site. She also knew this was the summer, and the time was perfect for more hooves-on little research projects. This had to be good, or at least noteworthy.

I looked back at my briefcase, currently lying unopened by my desk. Well, I’d find out soon enough, wouldn’t I? This was important, dammit, and I was going to see it through, even if I had to ride this strange, unexpected torpedo all the way to its conclusion.

What was stopping me, after all? Nothing. Nothing but my own mind, and every bit of my mind was busy screaming at me to get on a goddamn train and see where this led. Even if it led nowhere, it was still worth it, as Ponyville never has a lack of weird occurrences smashing down doors on any given week. Maybe I could take a trip into the Everfree after that, trade in my hunt for Petunia’s discovery for a trek to the old Castle. Then on to Canterlot, and then a straight shot to Las Pegasus and the undiscovered West, basking in the heat of the desert sun.

But that notion passed quickly enough, and I packed my bags with haste before heading out.

The Neigh Orleans train station apparently had a delay that day, so I’d found myself squeezed between a boozed-up ex-businessman with a Sol Invictus Church pin muttering about the imminent empire of the ants and a frumpy twin brother of the real estate agent who probably sold my parents’ houses. No rest for the weary, I thought as I sat on the uncomfortable seat and prayed for my train to come in before nightfall. I had come prepared, just in case; everything I could need was in my suitcase, including my pipe, my smoking blend, a tiny bottle of brandy and a fifth of gin, and I was shaded by a broad panama hat and a pair of old-fashioned aviators with a cheerful blue tiny. All I lacked was a fan in this humid, swampy haze, and that was because I couldn’t shove a whole damn desk fan into a tiny briefcase.

Somepony was apparently looking out for me, as about mid-afternoon I found myself clambering onto the train with my briefcase clutched against my side and glancing over my shoulder to make sure the two I’d sat next to weren’t following me. They weren’t, so I found myself a window seat, stared out the window wistfully the way all train travellers have when leaving home, and hoped to Celestia the H.P. Longmuzzle Bridge didn’t break this time. It probably wouldn’t; despite floods, hurricanes, heavy traffic and general municipal incompetence, the thing has always stayed standing.

The only way to prepare for a trip like this, I felt, was to spend the entire ride there in quiet contemplation, with the occasional sip of gin to aid maximum relaxation as I gazed outside and watched the scenery go by. I had already gotten out of the swamps and the endless pine forests, and had managed to find myself in the midst of the rolling hills and open meadows that signalled the change from coastal Equestria to the midlands. Pretty scenery aside, I knew to never lose sight of the main objective; find out what in Tartarus Petunia was on about. Nopony had bothered to say what this fantastic discovery was, so I’d have to find out for myself the hard way.

She’d called me out for something similar the previous year, but that had ended up being a fluke, chasing after the ruins of some ancient temple in the jungle that turned out to be still be occupied, and not by friendly folk, either. Thankfully, whatever this was, it was still in Equestria, so it couldn’t be nearly so dramatic or so dangerous. As fond as I am of gin and tonic, I would much rather not have to drink it daily to stave off the throes of acute malaria, thank you very much. I’m not stupid, after all; questionably sane, but not stupid. I did not want my obit to read ‘Travel Bug Bites Insane History Teacher: Archaeological Trip Turns Fatal.’

Still, this was as much a pleasure trip as a scholarly one, in my mind, at least. After all, when hellish temperatures and soul-crushing idleness sets in and the walls start closing in a little tighter, the only cure is to gather what money you have, bring a generous amount of booze and tobacco, and go screeching across the country with a radio blaring to make your own adventures.

What would this adventure be, anyway? Ancient mines discovered in the tunnels beneath the Canterhorn? Ruins of an ancient civilisation buried in the bed of the Ponyville river? Lost-lost deer villages in the Everfree Forest? My imagination was running wild with ideas, all of them more implausible than the next. Heh, if somepony had told me what it really was back then, I would’ve suggested they please quit drinking cactus juice immediately and find a quiet place to lay down before they started seeing flying manta rays.

Getting to Ponyville was easy enough, as the train slid into the station about six o’clock that evening, just as the sun was starting to sink behind some distant clouds. I stepped out onto the near-empty platform with my briefcase floating behind me, glancing around for some sign of my contact.

By the miracle of knowing to look for flailing limbs, I found Petunia leaning against a wall of the station, wearing a giddy smile and waving at me like mad. And by found, I mean the minute I spotted her, she charged at me and pulled me into a hug so tight I’m pretty sure would’ve broken a few of my ribs if she hadn’t let go. “You showed up! I was kind of worried you’d think I was making a big fuss over nothing since I didn’t really explain myself well.”

After a few seconds, I managed to extract myself from her iron clutches and brushed myself off. “Petunia, what are you on about? What’s going on? Why did you call me here?”

Petunia made a shushing gesture before I could get another word in, glancing around. “Not here. Walk with me to the outskirts of town.” I was starting to get a little worried. Petunia not blurting something out when she was excited, for once? Who was this, and what had they done with the mare whose idea of discretion involved only telling the first ten ponies within earshot?

I frowned. “Where are we going?” And please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me this wasn’t going to be like the time we crashed the party at Prince Bluebood’s house in Canterlot on the pretense of ‘exploring the Historical District.’ It was fun, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t think my flank or my liver had yet recovered from the collateral damage.

Petunia’s slightly manic grin unsettled me just a tiny bit as she reached out her hoof to grasp onto mine, dragging me along with her at a breakneck speed before I could complain. She practically galloped through the nearly-deserted streets with me in tow, leaving clouds of dust behind her. Oh sweet mother of Luna, this was going to be like that, wasn’t it? Good thing I had brought the gin, then. Still, I wasn’t going to protest; she apparently knew where she was going. And whatever this was, it couldn’t be that weird, right? It was only Ponyville, after all. I was at least curious to ride the crest of this wave of spontaneous madness, if only to see where I’d end up.

The town itself raced past in a bright, gaudy blur of colour, picturesque half-timbered cottages and townhouses giving way to a rushing green sea of grass and dandelions that seemed to part for us as we ran. Bright orange marigolds swayed in the evening breeze like flickering candles, bobbing and waving at us. The entire field was painted in a wash of dull red, rays of golden light slipping between the clouds like cracks in a door.

A building was up ahead, just over the crest of the next hill, nestled near the edge of the Ghastly Gorge. I could see the structure looming out of the meadow, a tall, grey rectangle topped by a spire that pierced through the clouds like a needle. It looked, frankly, like the sort of place you’d find a centuries-old vampony holed up in; imposing, dilapidated and out of the way. I tried to get closer, but to my annoyance, and Petunia’s amusement, I ran smack into an invisible barrier.

Once my companion managed to exhaust her supply of snickers, I managed to right myself and glare at her. “So... what is this? Why did you drag me out into the middle of this forsaken meadow to look at an old clocktower we can’t even get to? Petunia, were you drunk when you called me?”

She ignored the comment and rolled her eyes. “No, but I’m pretty sure you were. I dragged you out here because, come seven o’clock, I’m going to show you things you’ve never seen before in your wildest dreams!”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet thoroughly confused. “Petunia, dear, darling, colleague, lady, whatever. If you dragged me out here just to get kinky in the middle of an open field, you could have just asked and not bothered with the secrecy. Honestly though, I’m a little disappointed if that’s all this is.” Not by much, but enough. Don’t get me wrong, I like sex, but I thought this was going to be mostly business, not pleasure. Sex was easy to come by; discoveries of the century? Not so much.

To her credit, she had the good graces to look thoroughly embarrassed, flailing her hooves wildly as if to ward off the thought. “No, no, that’s not- I mean, that’s kind of what I brought you here for, but it’s not the whole- er, I mean...”

“Petunia. Take a breath. Calm down. I’ll even offer you a bit of my gin.”

To my surprise, she shook her head. “Won’t need it. There are other things. No, the reason I brought you out here... er, have you ever heard of kink clubs?”

Of course I’d bloody well heard of kink clubs. You can’t be a bored professional with a penchant for debauchery and not have heard of them, at least in terms of rumours and whispers. I’m not just not sure how this was relevant to our current situation. “Yes, did you find one that meets in the middle of an empty meadow?” And was it like Alcoholics Anonymous? I really hoped it wasn’t. I can imagine there’s only so many times one could hear somepony go “Hi, my name is Shutter Speed and I’m a cock addict,” before the urge to uncork the nearest wine bottle with their teeth set in.

She just smiled mysteriously. “Not in the meadow, but in there.” She pointed towards the tower in the distance, the clock face just visible in the evening light. I was just able to make out the time, 6:59, so whatever was supposed to happen would do so soon. “This is the home of the Clocktower Society, and I want to show you our world tonight.”

“So... you joined a kink club that meets in a crumbling, abandoned clock tower on the edge of a tiny town in the middle of Equestria, and you somehow got the feeling that this would be of interest to show a history teacher? That tower doesn’t even look a hundred years old Petunia, and kink clubs are a strictly Twentieth Century phenomenon-”

“Look again.”

I was annoyed, frustrated, and just about to give her a thorough piece of my mind when I turned my head to look again. My vision went white, and I felt myself fall forward onto the grass, as if I’d been leaning against something that was suddenly pulled away. Spitting out a clump of grass, I rubbed my eyes and looked up, blinking. A few seconds passed as I just stared blankly ahead. Then my jaw dropped.

Before me now was no mere turret in the distance, but an entire, massive complex of buildings clustered around a mighty tower that resembled an obelisk of old, light dancing and reflecting off the smooth, grey marble. This whole fortress- at least I assumed it was a fortress- had to be Pre-Banishment, at least, the buildings covered from cornerstone to parapets in a myriad of carvings, from ponies to gryphons and even Diamond Dogs. Soaring pointed arches and steep gables and yellow lancets stared down at us from the massive edifice, lights flickering and twinkling from behind every window. A lone bell tolled from the high tower as the clock struck seven, the sound echoing across the landscape.

This had to be at least Early Gothic, I figured, my eyes scanning every inch of the structure with almost childish glee as I stepped closer. The windows were too narrow for Late, and the columns too thick. But the moldings, the delicate tracery, the carved friezes were not Early features; maybe this was some sort of hybrid structure? It didn’t look like it could have been built all at once, after all, considering the gargantuan dimensions.

I could have stood there all night if I wasn’t snapped out of my reverie by Petunia, who had moved to my side and was tapping my shoulder. “We need to get a move on. The others are here, too.”

Others? What others- oh. In the several minutes I had spent admiring the architecture, a host of ponies had converged on this once-empty field, all of them headed towards the building before us. Hundreds of ponies, mares and stallions, young and old, friends and strangers alike surged forward in this teeming sea of life, gently pushing us forward and into the courtyard of the complex, led by the soft glow of lanterns. The entire hill was alive with the sounds of chatter and hooves rustling through the grass. Flashes of magic were seen here and there, more ponies seemingly popping into existence from what I assumed were teleportation gates.

The slow-moving mob of ponies, by some miracle, quickly changed into a neat, orderly line as we got closer to the main gates, enormous double doors swinging open, beckoning us into a dark, gaping archway. There was no need for pushing anymore; we just simply marched forward, one by one, and tried our best not to fall behind.

I was worried, at first, that I wouldn’t be able to get in, as I lacked one of the little golden badges that everypony else presented to the guards at the gate. To my surprise, Petunia just flashed her badge, and the guard handed me one of my own and waved me through before moving onto the next couple of ponies. I almost stopped as I followed Petunia under the arch, my urge to stand around and simply marvel at everything surrounding me stronger than ever. But I couldn’t, I realised; not this time anyway. It was time to go into the breach, and onward to the unknown, mysterious world of the Clocktower Society.