Ice rose around him in steep white-blue cliffs. Far above, the false-stars shone silently. The lantern at the prow starkly illuminated water black as oil, and the only sound was the lapping of water against the hull. The cold felt like it was seeping further through Bright Taper's clothes like slowly spreading ice water. His little ship drifted slowly forward, through a scene as still as a painting.

Bright Taper shivered in his jacket. He leaned on the wheel, feeling the resistance from the rudder as his boat slowly turned away from one of the icebergs. He would have never come out here, but the pay was too good. Every candle he could make, brought to up here in one big shipment, and they’d give him enough to never have to work again. He squinted into the darkness. How much furth –

The boat was thrown, rocking violently to the side with a terrifying sound of splintering wood. He grabbed the wheel, trying to hold himself upright as he looked to see what smashed into him.

A black mountain rose from the cold sea, a shadow against the ice twice as high as the ship. A red glow came from the water under it, outlining sharp black ridges spreading out from the mountain’s base.

The impact had pushed his ship away from it, and he spun the wheel frantically, trying to put more distance between him and the mountain. But it loomed larger, and for a moment, he thought the wheel wasn’t working. But the ship was turning; it was the mountain, rushing towards himself by itself.

The mountain slammed into his ship in slow motion, shattering the railing, the side. It pulled away, leaving a crescent-shape gap where the side of the ship had been crushed inward. The ship began to tilt, as water rushed into the lower decks.

No. No. Where had that come from? Why was it doing this? Already the ship was sinking below him. He needed to fix the breach before it went under – but he needed to get away from this thing or it would ram the ship again – but he needed to repair the ship before he could get away –

He stood, frozen, as the mountain turned, preparing to meet him again.

A bright light flared, almost blinding him. He threw a leg up to shield his eyes, and as his eyes adjusted he saw the shadow of the black mountain receding into the distance. He blinked, staring with his mouth open at where it had been.

Nothing moved. Even the ship seemed to have stopped taking on water. The bright orange and yellow light illuminated the ship around him. Where was it coming from?

He lifted up his hooves.

He was burning. Flames danced over his hooves, slowly moving up his legs as his coat and skin were rendered into black ash. The ash flaked away, revealing the milky white of candle wax. The smoke was rich and glorious. His mouth watered. There was no pain. He was getting smaller – no, he was melting, burning down. When the time comes we will all burn together.

He was fuel.

– – – – –

He blinked. It was dark. He blinked again, and as his eyes adjusted he recognized the familiar wooden beams of his roof. It had been a dream.

Bright Taper slipped out of bed. Outside his window the sun was only an orange line on the horizon, but he couldn’t sleep now. He went downstairs, to his candle shop. The dream hung in his mind like a cloud. He breathed in deeply, smelling the wax, the cloth. He was hungry. For what? It wasn’t the soft texture of bread, or the sweet firmness of fruit. He wanted – he wanted –

He picked up a candle and bit down. The wax parted beneath his teeth more easily than fruit. It tasted of nothing. He chewed, swallowed, and thought about the cold. One day, he would go north, and he would burn.

* * *

There was no moon in the sky, only hundreds of stars. Golden Glow was on an island, her hooves on sand. Behind her was the steady crash of the waves on a rocky beach.

Against the night sky was silhouetted a hill, with a low black shape at the top. With nothing else to do, she got up and began walking towards it. As the sand gave way to grass, the stars whispered to her in a slow, heartbeat-like rhythm. A foalhood friend she had lost track of had grown up to become a barber. One of her father’s cooks had worked an extra job cutting other ponies’ grass to pay for care for his ailing father. A pearl she had dropped and thought lost two years ago had rolled behind her vanity dresser, and she need only have the dresser moved to retrieve it.

She was part of the way up the hill now. Whatever was at the top appeared to be round. The stars’ whispers were coming faster, now. Her gardener had a batpony daughter, one he had never told his wife about. The guard who watched the garden kept a flask he wasn’t supposed to in a pocket, and he would nip from it over the course of the night. One of her butlers coveted the painting of the Everfree Forest in the gallery, the one with the moon yellow and ominous and very close. The stars winked, faster and faster. Stay away from the well. Stay away from the well. It is north under granite, and it is hungry.

She kept walking, and she could not have told you why.

She was close to the top, now. The voice she heard wasn’t the stars, not anymore. Her maid had met a pickpocket, and they planned to run away together. The maid had stood behind Golden Glow as she had opened the safe under her desk, and had memorized the code: 34-90-05. She would steal all the bits within, and the maid and her lover had agreed to leave for Manehattan in two days’ time. In one days’ time, the lover would take the bits and in the middle of the night slip out for Baltimare, leaving the maid all alone.

She had reached the top. All around her the stars were thick in the night sky, but above her they became thinner and thinner until there was only an empty void above. The round thing was clear now; it was a well, made from stone. She smelled iron. She put a hoof on the granite; it was warm with fresh blood. The maw of the well gaped at her, an open mouth. Traitors are sacred to wells. Feed it. We will feed it together.

She was water.

Her eyes snapped open in her four-poster bed. She knew where she had to go. Golden Glow got out of bed, left her bedroom, and went down her mansion stairs, her hooves silent in their velvet slippers. The moon through the windows gave her enough light to see by, and she did not light a lamp or a candle.

There. The door to her office was open, and there was a furtive glow within. Golden Glow stepped into the doorway.

Her maid was within, crouched behind her desk as she shoveled bits into a bag. She looked up as the edge of her lamp’s light caught the movement, and she froze, her eyes going as wide as plates.

Golden Glow stood there, taking it in, before she began to laugh.

They found her three weeks later, deep in the snow, on a route that took them around the Crystal Empire. The bodies of three of her servants were found in the cart she was pulling, long since dead of starvation and exposure. In an envelope close to her chest, they found secrets: her gardener’s abandoned child, her maid’s robbery attempt, the pickpocket’s lack of loyalty. Secrets enough for her to have blackmailed them into coming with her. From the way the cart was facing, they had been heading north.

* * *

The place Orange Daisy was in had no sun or moon. There was only the roof of the stone tunnel, and the indistinct black figures carrying her. A friend had betrayed her for greed. They had lured here from the sky with promises of wealth. Now all the wealth she had were the iron chains on her wings and legs. What was this place? How long had she been down here? What had happened to her daughter? She tried to speak to them, but all that came out were indistinct sounds, as if veils of silence covered her mouth and ears.

The tunnel ended in a wide room, with an altar in the center. The room was lit with fine candles on tall golden frames. Silver plates and knives ringed the altar. Around it were figures in thick robes woven and dyed as richly as birds or sunsets. Before them she felt as a pauper. They turned as she was carried in. Underneath their hoods, their eyes were sunken into their sockets and their skin was stretched thin over their hands and faces. One of them licked their lips.

They tied her to an altar, a chain for each leg. They stood over her on two legs, and they spoke indecipherable words to their fellows. One of them stepped up to the altar. In one hand they raised something that shone sharply, and she only had time to open her mouth before they brought it down into her stomach.

Treasure burst from the rent in her belly. Rings of red gold, crimson pearls, chains carved from rubies set in gold, all spurting out in a rush like someone had opened one of Princess Celestia’s vaults. The figures grabbed them in great handfuls, bringing the richness to their mouths. They got down on all fours to lap coins from the stone ground.

More of them gathered around her. They tore strips of skin from her, and the flesh turned into gold leaf as it touched their lips. They snatched garnets from her stomach, crunched them between their teeth. As they ate, the health flowed back into their bodies. Their cheeks filled out, their eyes brightened, and they glowed, lit from within with her. They cut further, opening the flesh on her chest, revealing ribs of silver. Her lungs were velvet specked with gold, parting softly beneath their knives. Finally, they came to her heart, a rose diamond from which shone a golden light. They reached out and took that from her too.

She was meat.

She woke, a taste of something like blood on her tongue. The roof spun above her. She rolled out of bed and onto her feet. She felt so terribly light, as if there was nothing in her belly. They had taken away what was precious inside her. She needed new lights, new gold, to replace what she had lost. But what did she have that was of equal value?

She stumbled up the stairs, a red haze at the edges of her vision. Her daughter was sleeping above. She would have new treasures. She would have new gold. She would have a new heart.

The guard was called after two days passed without Carnelian Blossom showing up for school. They found the house in disarray, with furniture knocked over and smashed. A single large bloodstain was found, spread across the dining table.

* * *

Celestia’s letter hadn’t had any detail in it; only a single line asking that Twilight come to Canterlot without delay. It hadn’t been hard for her to connect the dots, though. As a princess, she had access to some odd reports, things that Princess Luna had quietly had toned down in the newspapers. Four bodies found north of the Crystal Empire. A disappeared family. The most difficult had been a candlemaker who had wandered out into a marketplace, mouth smeared with wax, screaming...something.

Celestia and Luna were both waiting in the office Celestia had asked her to come to. “Twilight,” Luna said. “It is good to see you. Do you understand why we have asked you here?”

“Yes,” Twilight said.

Luna nodded. “Good.” She rose from her seat. “Time is of the essence. Shall we go to the gardens?”

They led her to a long, low building hidden behind a long hedge. It looked like nothing more than a decorative shed, the kind that were dotted around the gardens that surrounded the royal castle. Luna opened it, and Celestia and Twilight followed after her.

Inside was a tiny antechamber, just barely enough to fit all three of them. A door on the opposite wall led further in. Luna lit an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling before closing the door to the outside. Stone settled into place, and all light from the outside was blocked; the only illumination was the oil lamp. Celestia bent down to speak to her.

“Twilight, I can follow my sister through the rest of this place, but while I cam there I cannot use any magic, not even levitation. There must be no sunlight there. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Princess, what’s going on?”

“I will explain once we have finished our part in this. Come.” Luna had opened the other door while they had been speaking. A spiral staircase led further into the earth. Luna led the way, holding the oil lamp aloft. Celestia went next, and Twilight brought up the rear, her own light spell active.

After what felt like an hour of climbing, they came to a wide, round room. Metal shelves stood against the walls, full of wooden boxes darkened by age. Lamps hung from the sides of the shelves. A flat-bottomed barge with some kind of engine at the back stood in the middle of the room, on top of a circular spiral pattern cast from metal. A button on a pole rose from the metal floor next to the spiral.

As Luna approached the barge, she set her own lamp down and raised her head. Beams of light leapt from her horn, touching the lamps, and they flared to life. “Twilight,” she said. “Bring the crates down. Celestia and I must examine the contents, and then we will load them. ”

Together, Luna and Twilight took the crates off the shelves and opened them.

A jar of bright honey. A shaft of light that held a crackling tip and rumbled distantly like thunder, paired with a metal and wood tube with a trigger like a crossbow. A set of stopped jars, each with a round blue face that glowed faintly, casting the inside of their crate in cerulean light. Seven boxes crafted from gearworks and pistons, tightly closed like wound springs. Three long trunks full of tomes and binders and portfolios, all of them with preservation spells Twilight had only seen in the sections of the royal archives for books that were very old and very dangerous. All these and more passed rapidly before her; it took the other princesses only a moment to evaluate each one before instructing her to close it and place it onto the barge.

“What are all these?” she asked, as she opened a velvet bag full of black iron tokens marked a silver dagger.

“Treasures,” Luna said. “A king’s ransom. Hush. We must hurry.”

Finally, the last crate was on the barge. Luna stepped into it and stood in the center, and Celestia positioned herself in front of Luna. “Luna,” she said, and embraced her.

Luna hugged her back. “I’ll be back sister. Just be patient.”

“I will.” They let go and stepped apart again. Celestia bent her head, pointing the tip of her horn at her sister’s neck.

Princess Luna closed her eyes. She opened them again.

In her place stood Nightmare Moon, tall and proud. Her mane streamed behind her, and her armor gleamed. “Sister,” she began.

Celestia thrust her horn through Nightmare’s neck in a single stroke, until the tip came out the back of her neck.

Nightmare staggered as blood ran down her chest. She coughed, blood trickling from her mouth, her eyes wide.

Celestia stepped back, pulling her horn from Nightmare’s body. Nightmare shuddered and slowly fell to her knees, until her legs gave out and she collapsed on the floor of the boat. Her eyes slid closed.

Celestia lifted off and landed just outside the spiral. “Twilight,” she said. “Press the button on the pedestal. Now.”

“What – Princess – ” Twilight stammered.

“Now, Twilight.”

The tone of command of her mentor’s voice snapped Twilight from her shock. She walked to the pole next to the barge and pressed it.

The spiral under the barge irised open, revealing the water that was directly underneath it. The smell of old salt water filled the air as the barge slipped easily onto it. The water began to drain, lowering the barge deeper and deeper, until it was lost in the dark. The circle closed again, leaving them alone.

“Take the lamp, Twilight,” Celestia said. “You will have to lead us up.”

“Y-yes, Princess.” She picked up the lamp in her magic and turned towards the stairs. There was the sound of hoofsteps trotting on hard metal as Celestia came up to her.

They ascended the stairs in silence, until they reached the top. Celestia stopped Twilight before they could open the final door leading back into the daytime.

“The first thing I want to say is this: That was still Luna, there. What she must do, she must do while wearing the face of Nightmare Moon.

“I know you have questions,” she continued. “This knowledge could kill you. If I had my way you would never need to hear about this at all. But I know that if I don’t tell you, you will look it out yourself, and the consequences of that would be much worse than if I warned you now. Do you understand?”

“I…” Knowledge that could be dangerous to the one who knew it? That wasn’t logical. How would that work?

“Perhaps it would make more sense once I tell it to you. This story was old before I was born, so I don't have all the details, but I will do the best I can.”

* * *

Once, there were ten beings who called themselves the Masters. Ages ago, they had formed a pact: through their work, all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. They ruled five cities as merchants, and kings, and gods.

There was one among them who dealt in candles and dreams. He was the one who had first brought them ownership of a city. He gave refuge to those with no other home. He fought for the sake of the small. Of all their cities he loved the second one best. One day, he gave the queen of that place something that all the Masters had agreed to hold in common, something that was not his to give. By the time they learned it was missing, it had already been used up.

To that Master, what he had done was fair and just. But where he could not hear them, the other Masters called him liar and traitor. They could not touch the queen, not anymore, but they could still punish one of their own.

As they were lied to, so they lied in turn. As they were betrayed, so they betrayed in turn. They invited him to a temple in their third city, and there they bound him in chains and gave his flesh to the people of that place. They hooked him like a fish and they carved him with knives. His soul skipped like rich blood on a griddle. They took his flesh, and his lights, and his heart. Their mouths were red and white and rich with treasure, and they gained eternal life.

Finally, when they had filled their stomachs to bursting, he still breathed. So they took him north, beyond a gate in the ice at the end of the world, and there they drowned him in a well full of tears. With the inks of the undernight they unwrote his name, and they washed the memory of him from the rest of the universe. Not even I know what he was called now.

For over a hundred years after, the rest of the Masters ruled as their always had. They split their lost Master's portfolio among themselves, and they quietly removed any proof of his existence that they found. The cities never knew there had been another Master.

But beneath their notice, hidden by the same craft they had used to erase the lost Master, lights were stirring. In the wicker of a candle-flame, in the stir of still water, in the soft tick of hours before dawn, there was a voice, and if you listened it would ask. The voice’s name had been unwritten, so those who heard him called him Mr. Eaten, the Drowned Man, the Name That Devours. He was not a god, for he came from the north, where it was too cold for gods. They would feast on candles and secrets and still-living flesh, rich and red, and they would not feast alone. Traitors were sacred to him, and to whisper his tale in other’s ears was the greatest betrayal of all. They would light fires, his candles, his mark. The Masters had wanted him forgotten; he will not be forgotten. The wax is his flesh. The flame is his eye. The due will be paid.

They would blacken their minds like paper, they would put stains upon their soul, they would never again dream without a cell, a shackle, a bar, a cage. They mourned him; they would give voice to his hatred. The wells spoke with his voice. A terrible bargain had been made in a far dry place, and all water remembered because all water was something that was once well-water. They would spread their red word of him, and those words would be seeds that sprouted, further and further, until they could no longer be forgotten. There was a gate in the north, where a pale light had begun and a drowned light had ended. They would go North, where the white waits and the gate sails. They would go North, and they would burn like a candle. They would go North, and his Name would be spoken once more. They would go North, and they would open the gate, and his pain would be more ambitiously distributed, and nothing at all would be well.

A reckoning is not to be postponed indefinitely. Not forever. Not in the end. Not for long.

* * *

As Twilight and Celestia spoke, far below the events they had set in motion began their work.

The ancient mechanisms, carved from imperishable stone and set with runes of preservation so that on a day like this they would still turn, creaked and groan as they ground to life. Nightmare Moon’s barge passed through what thousands of years ago mortals had called the Cumean Canal. Water flowed downward, guided by lock after lock, miles beneath the surface, until the last gate opened, and the boat was borne into a sunless sea.

(It was said, in the days of the sun before Celestia's sun, that this was the place where the earth hid her sins.)

Nightmare Moon opened her eyes.

Author's Note

Something like half of Celestia’s story is various bits of the actual Seeking Mr. Eaten’s Name storyline from Fallen London chopped up into a narrative format. Considering the way that storyline uses arc words and raving madness, I decided this was acceptable. North under granite.

I considered using that screaming candle picture from Sunless Sea for a bit, but I decided that the story description, tags, and chapter titles looked evil enough already.

The developers of Fallen London have politely requested that nobody spoil the ending to the Seeking Mr. Eaten’s Name storyline. I have no plans to do so. What happens in this story will be based on my theories on what that end will be like, based on playing an alt character right up (but not past) the King of Ways in the Seeking storyline, having played plenty of Fallen London and Sunless Sea, and using the barest scraps of Sunless Skies lore. Some of you may be disappointed. But perhaps others knew this already. After all, going North will profit you nothing. You were warned.