The Trinity of Moons: Ancillary Mirrors

Our small flying vessel is going down over a midday Canterlot, but our path leads into an enclave of the night.

It is impolite here to call Luna a younger Sister. It will be wholly incorrect in later timelines with the Trinity of Moons. But now, looking over Canterlot’s grandeur, I can see she compensates for being, in fact, a younger one, as both her colors cover about two-thirds of the upper districts of Canterlot.

Here is Luna’s first tone: translucent light blue, the color of aerated water, shimmering in the sun rays which pierce it in the midst of summer. The color shines and flows, unsteady, amorphous: at a glance these Canterlot towers look like giant fountains.

Here -- either next to the first one or like insistent islands in the middle of Celestia’s pure marble, the second tone: deep midnight blue which bends the perceptive shape of surfaces it covers. Only rarely do star-like specks of light glimmer in the darkness.

Tall, imposing, arching or angular spires rise from the wide areas of the midnight blue, each crowned with a giant magical orb. Each and every one of those spires can be seen as they are. Or they could be inverted in one’s eyes and appear as wells that reach to the unknown depths. Or, maybe, they present themselves like a passage to another dimension itself.

It appears like a matter of perspective but is, in fact, a consequence of powerful magic which keeps the ethereal silhouettes housed within the orbs contained. One can not be too sure if these are merely contained spells, stored dreams, or imprisoned monsters.

As one who followed Blue Moon for most of my lives, I can be sure that each orb contains all of that and more.

This is the one and only timeline where these entities were never unleashed, same as Celestia’s other color: this rage is buried below the surface, left to an eternal slumber no battle can wake it from.

Not yet, I remind myself. Less than two months remain before the Moonrise and the Scarlet Dawn.

The landing in Luna’s part of the city is soft and soundless. Fluttercrafts rarely make any noise at all, but here, in the midnight blue, the silence feels supernatural, and even the midday sun appears painted white in the hushed blue of the sky, its light never truly reaching the land.

Directed by Tempest, we take a walk to one of the darker towers — it is unsafe to fly closer to it, she comments. After landing, not even a third of a slice goes by before we are accompanied by two dragons. One of them comes from my right, and I recognize them from my observations above. In fact, I can easily guess he is male, simply by soft contrast with the other one.

The dragon to the left exchanges several glances with Stylus. She lowers herself all the way down, arching in a single smooth curve for him to climb upon. For the rest of our walk he takes a ride on the dragoness’s back, looking upon her with wonder and curiosity now that he is much closer than before. While he looks content and safe, Quartz steps much closer to me, and I half-hug her with my wing. She won’t tell me she is afraid. We both know she is — I can smell it in the air. It sends my heart to a faster rhythm.

While we walk, I watch each silent step of these gracious winged giants, still enchanted by how graciously they step. I am barely tall enough to reach the knee joint of a scaly leg, and each clawed finger is longer than my head. Yet they move as fluid and fast as even the smallest lizards do, and soon I find myself flying just to keep up. Tempest is not running — her long legs serve her well in the easy stride.

We don’t enter the tower -- Luna meets us at the threshold. Equal to Celestia in height and majesty, she steps up from a long shadow, her wings radiating the absence of heat,as if she is visiting us from the lands where the summer simply does not exist. It is likely she is in fact coming to us from such a place.

“Welcome,” she says, wings unfolded, her horn glowing a little with the ghostly, ridged blue tone of her magic. The dragons come to brush their scales against her sides, both still notably larger than the alicorn physically, yet the alicorn exudes a more powerful presence than either of them. They emit a tune of longing and return for where the longest flight could come to an end. She joins them in song — no word is clear for me yet the emotion it carries cannot be denied, and once again I allow the wave to rush over me and carry me with it.

All of time passes by for us as this song flows; species arise, live through, and go extinct, and continental plates shift over Equus’s mantle as we follow Luna’s song of returning home, weaving all six of our voices in eternal harmony. We know no words for the song yet the words know us, guiding us at every glacial breath. Yet the painted sun in the sky moves for but three of its diameters.

Tempest listens in. She does not sing, the seventh of the six, always entwined in our travels yet always left behind the heroes’ count.

"Nay," Luna says to me after the song concludes. "Thou canst not stop the Moonrise. It shall come on the night it is meant to. And thy very journey to us is agreed upon with the Red — she reached us as part of the Pink Moon which did light thy way, upon terms we are bound to honor. Her insistence to maintain her existence is not without merit.

“Yet, within this agreement, there is some freedom. We can, and we shall, strive to make things better. We hope to prevent harm, to guide and transform anger, to prepare for a peaceful resolution — all by making small adjustments to the course of events. Thou shalt partake in this endeavor."

We look at the alicorn while I wait for instructions. This is the place where Bittercup would ask for a quest from the very Princess of the Night herself. Yet, instead she comes closer and touches me with tips of both her wings. The absence of heat isn’t freezing or otherwise unpleasant; it merely tells me that warmth is a small, comfortable illusion while the night reigns eternal.

"Roam freely, dearest Lure, we bid thee so as destiny holds more wisdom than we. In thy travels, seek out other Aspects of us. This, truly, is all we can impart at this time."

“But– What about our friend?” Quartz interrupts. “Do ya know where she is?”

“We do,” Princess Luna smiles a little. “Never should Cutie Mark Crusaders exist in the same history alongside their other selves. For Lure to grace us with her presence, Bittercup must be addressed by taking a turn from this tapestry of time. A mission now claims her, intertwined with the fate of the traveler.”

The tone with which she said these last words… The breath hitches in my throat. I ask, incredulous, “Princess… have you put a little filly against the traveler?!”

“What in tarnation is ‘the traveler’?” Quartz asks, annoyance and fear sipping into her voice.

Princess Luna delays her answer, and I reply first, nuzzling Quartz. “A theme of a prophecy from the end of times, one we know is true. It is very short and simple, yet rarely known in its full text. Here it is as I learned it from Black Moon herself. The path shall come to an end, and the traveler returns victorious. The stars guide her escape, and the stars remain her lanterns. The darkness eternal looms along with her return. No light survives in the darkness as the traveler cannot be denied and the victory cannot be disputed. Which means that when the world comes to an end, you have no chance to win against the traveler. The victory was hers before you even stood against her.”

“Yet, who is she?” Stylus repeats from the back of her dragoness.

I look down and admit, “We don’t know exactly. The Moons could know but they wouldn’t tell us.”

Princess Luna politely waits until we end the exchange. “Guesses are all that we possess. And hope yet lingers that dear Bittercup might reach the traveler ‘ere her return. Battle, she should know, is not the path to tread.”

“Bittercup's or the Traveler’s returns?” I try to clarify.

Princess Luna’s teeth flash in the darkness as she nods.

“Is Bittercup in danger there?” Stylus furrows his brow as he asks. “Because if you put her in danger, Princess, then I am disappointed.”

Tempest chuckles at that, her eyes glistening with clear amusement.

Luna sighs. “Nay, not in a manner that thy rescue couldst ease. A measure of our hopes did falter when young Scootaloo's resolve stood unyielding against our counsel. Bittercup now treads a path shared with her other self — a convergence we sought to avoid.”

My friends and I exchange glances with one another. It seems that, while there is unease between us three, most of it belongs to me: I learned to trust Blue Moon almost unconditionally, yet I have a certain promise.

Under his breath, I can hear Stylus mutter a defiant “We are going to save Bittercup, no matter the risk.”

A part of me wonders if, perhaps, I wasn’t meant to hear that. Whether he merely said that for his own sake or in the belief that saying it aloud would make it true. Whatever Stylus’ intent was, it was all I needed to hear before I felt the same as them; determined to save Bittercup.

“We would like to go retrieve Bittercup anyway, Princess. Can you help us?” I speak slowly, with all due respect, despite going against the alicorn’s word.

“We can,” the dragon tells us instead. His voice is low yet inherently melodic, the timbre like a lasting touch to an upright bass. “If you would make certain promises first.”

I have a nagging feeling I am forgetting something, but that invites me to turn wholly towards him and focus, “What kind of promises?”

“Promise that we all will take a flight to our preferred place,” he suggests, laughter hiding both in his voice and his green eyes. “Oh, and little Fizzlepop Berrytwist should join us on our short trip.”

“Hey! Don’t call me that in public!” I turn to see Tempest shouting, equal parts furious and embarrassed. The fire in her eyes only highlighted the heavy blush upon her coat, visible even through her natural color.

Stylus is the first to realize it, then Quartz does too. It takes the two of them nudging me for the pieces to fall into place. The three of us can’t help but giggle. A giggle that becomes a chortle when the dragons join in.

That doesn’t help her. Yet, at least it eases our own mood.

The journey continued in silence. The ponies, the manticore, and the Forest were silent. They had fought together, proving their strength — or rather, their resolve. Any other forest in Equestria would have been concerned or frightened — assuming it noticed them, of course. The Everfree respected it.

The Everfree’s respect had to be earned and it would test them again. Someday. Maybe in a week, maybe next year, but it would try again, just as it always had with any pony that dared to trespass within it.

But not tonight. Tonight, no creature wished to cross paths with a group that included a manticore.

Gradually, ancient cobblestones emerged from beneath the moss, and beyond the last veil of hanging branches, a castle towered before them. The sharp roofs perfectly reflected the moonlight, and the towers and battlements cast fanciful shadows on the ground where the Forest dared not tread.

The Castle of the Two Sisters had been built in a much more primitive era, and it showed. Unlike the bright palace of Canterlot which stood open to all winds, this castle remembered its purpose. It was a home, a symbol — but first and foremost the place where, if necessary, the last battle would be fought.

High walls of dark stone that seemingly fade into the night sky, narrow windows that glimmer faintly in the moonlight, a complex gate design of thick wrought iron, and the reflection of Night in the very contours of the castle — The Castle of Two Sisters was, is, and shall always be an oppressive sight.

Scootaloo, resolute, proceeded past the iron gate to an ornate front door, then opened it.

Inside the central keep was surprisingly bright. Tiny dust particles danced in the blue light streaming down from the stained-glass windows above. Their hoofsteps, though muffled by the carpet, still carried through the empty keep. The manticore sniffed around the corners. Sweetie Belle summoned magic — and immediately extinguished it in horror.

The castle had heard her. One by one, magical lights flickered on the sconces along the walls. The air pulsed with the life that once lingered within the castle.

Bittercup felt a familiar longing. That same longing that resonates in every creak and echo of old things, old mechanisms, but most of all old houses. They too want to live again. A pony enters, dusts furniture off, turns rusty handles, and hears them calling, "Have you come to stay? Will you light my fireplaces, spread carpets, banish mold? Will my kitchens boil, doors clap, guests laugh?"

Then they would learn the visitor came only to take the remaining valuables.

Bittercup opened her eyes, pricked up her ears, and took a deep breath. Even the stale air felt impatient. In the dry bitterness of oblivion, a faint spark of hope touched her tongue, along with a hint of an answer that had yet to be asked.

“What we’re looking for should be in the basement. We need to find the stairs.” Bittercup said.

The basement was not actually a basement, but that was the most apt description they could understand. Carved stone spiral stairs gave way to uneven rocks, and those, in turn, gave way to the crystalline veins of the earth itself. Turn after turn, they walked, looking at the faintly sparkling crystal streams. No sound from the surface above could reach them here. Time ceased to flow, if it had ever existed in this space at all.

The crystal joints entwined and formed a distinct tree shape at the center of this cavernous space. The Tree of Harmony, regrown so much deeper under the Castle, soon after King Sombra’s insidious attack, once the students’ small treehouse stopped being used.

“Stop!” somethingrang out inside Bittercup. Not a voice — a thought in her head, cold and sharp.

The Crusaders and the manticore stopped, looking back at her.

“I am sorry, but you should not be,” the thought rang out.

Bittercup looked around, eyes wide, resignation in her voice “Go on without me.” She wasn’t going to try and switch places with Scootaloo, and the ponies told her, time and time again, that she is misplaced in this world. There was too little fight left for when the spirit of the land tells you that you have to go.

Sometimes you fail your quests, Bittercup thought.

“You should not be. Anywhere in this world.” Without hatred, merely a statement of a fact.

The crystal floor crept over Bittercup’s hooves like a strangling vine. Glimmering, crystalline veins snaked over her hooves, then her legs — encasing her in a prison of crystal. It pulsed like the veins of a living creature, shimmering rainbow hues racing across it with every pulse.

“Why?!” Bittercup shrieked, hopelessly straining to break free “I’m a good pony!”

“You are an anomaly. You could infect the crystal.”

“Let me go!”

“I’m here! What has happened?! I won’t make a step without you, dear.” Sweetie Belle’s high-pitched voice called out Bittercup heard she means it. That ignited a small spark of resistance — enough to answer her.

“It’s the Tree. It doesn’t like me!” The crystal had reached above her knees and was creeping up her body still.

Scootaloo shot a fierce look at the Tree of Harmony. The Сrusaders knew this wouldn’t be easy, but they hadn’t expected the Tree itself to be a force of opposition.

***

On a summer evening with sweltering heat, there was a school working on a play. They needed a changeling -- not a real changeling, but a pony to play the role. They tried a pegasus, but it was no good — her wings flapped too slowly, and no cosmetics or props could make them look like torn membranes.

They tried a unicorn, but the foal couldn't maintain the complicated "butterfly" spell long enough to get through a single scene. They even tried an earth pony with a wind-up mechanism... And Scootaloo watched all this with growing despair and burgeoning determination. She volunteered.

It’s not humiliating if you offer yourself for your friends as a unique pegasus who can buzz.

It’s not a disability as long as you can fight through it and stay positive no matter what.

That was what Scootaloo would tell herself time and again, and that day would not be an exception.

***

Here and now, it was also time to improvise. Scootaloo stepped up to the tree-like structure of twisted crystal, its glowing branches looming overhead.

“My name is Scootaloo and this is my friend! I won’t let you turn her to stone — and if you do, I will turn over the earth, and the sky, and time itself to find a way to bring her back, and don’t you doubt it, I have the persistence. I qualified for the Washouts, then qualified for them again. I won’t back down — and if needs be, I’ll call for help too!”

That last one was the hardest to admit.

A short, whimsical chord played, and Scootaloo went frozen in place, as just around her a thin film of rainbow crystal formed. She was alive, breathing, even making small steps in place, but no sound came from her. She was unyieldingly looking straight at the Tree.

Two Crusader gasped and rushed to Scootaloo, trying to break the shell. It stood cold and indifferent both to magic and hooves.

Through the veil of tears Sweetie Belle saw that the crystal’s movement across Bittercup slowed — not that it was fast in the first place.

That would be madness to follow their leader and their friend, but Sweetie Belle knew when leaps of faith could work in good stories.

Stepping out into the rainbow light that shone favorably on her white coat, she flicked her well-groomed, two-toned mane and spoke:

"My name is Sweetie Belle, and this is my friend. If she has angered you, I petition for your mercy and plea for you to allow her to..." She glanced at Bittercup. "Leave your world on her own. She’s going to do that anyway. Please, try to understand things from her perspective, Tree! I’m not asking you to think, but maybe feel — does an innocent foal deserve such a fate?"

***

Sweetie Belle was talented, and she knew it. She couldn't lose. She was the best of the best; destined for a career, fame, wealth, and stallions... She was ready to send her competition home, crying like babies. How could she even consider giving up, how could she bury her foalhood dream?

She looked at her two competitors in the finale: the slender, orange-brown earth pony and the black-silver adolescent pegasus. They, too, were good, but paled in comparison to her. Sweetie Belle saw the way her competitors were shaking, their nerves getting the better of them. She had seen how hard the two of them had worked to get this far. That hard work deserved to be rewarded, didn’t it? As much as Sweetie Belle wanted to win, she realized she wanted them to win too.

Sweetie didn’t betray herself or her desires. Instead, she proposed the three of them sing a piece together, to demonstrate the unity of Equestria. The judge of the competition, Princess Celestia herself, approved of this change and allowed them to sing as one. When the competition was over, Sweetie Belle and her fellow contestants had each won a prize. It was as if Princess Celestia had known this outcome would occur, as she had already prepared three prizes instead of one.

That option was even given by the rules of the contest. Sweetie Belle could swear that she would notice such an option before… but the rules had no trace of any edit.

***

The sound of a crowd’s applause rang in Sweetie Belle’s head. She hurried to respond, "I read fairy tales. I write fairy tales. I know their rules. We will pay the price if you demand one — and yet I ask for a gracious gift and for goodwill to stand above the laws."

There was no answer. There was a gift, just as Sweetie Belle had asked — without a price or promises, without magic or science, without right or law, because a good fairy tale for a foal cannot be told any other way.

Yet, for the sake of the honest trial, as Sweetie got to know — crystal clear with the tint of apology — she, too, went enclosed in the static shell.

Applebloom, who had been glaring at the tree as if seriously intending to retaliate against it, sighed heavily and stepped forward. She didn’t try to subside her desperate anger. She saw how the crystalline petrification of Bittercup seemed to halt. The deep cut from manticore’s claw opened up and was bleeding again.

"Ah’m Applebloom, and Ah’m her…" she pointed her hoof straight at Bittercup. She strained to use the word, but used it anyway, "friend."

***

The Canterlot train stopped at the station, and Sweetie Belle, having mindfully moved aside her magnificent mane, buried her face in Applebloom’s shoulder and burst into pained tears. Despite the dramatic flair, the tears were real. And the heartbreak was real too.

Sweetie had come to ask her friend to dissuade her from breaking up with her coltfriend. She told her everything: the cheating, the lies, the thefts, the fights, and more lies… For every good memory Sweetie Belle had of this colt, she had a dozen bad memories.

Applebloom knew this stallion. She knew that some ponies never change. For some, it was a conscious choice to keep from changing. For others, they simply couldn’t understand what was wrong with their actions. Call it a lack of empathy, perhaps.

That night, the three friends had gathered, and Rarity joined them too. Applebloom told Sweetie Belle exactly how her heart felt:

"Now sugar, listen here. No matter what in the world happens, we're gonna be right here for ya. Ya can leave him, or ya can stay with him, we just want you to be happy with the choices you’ve made. Whether you end up marryin’ that colt or ditchin’ him, our friendship won’t be goin’ anywhere, ya hear me?"

And so, filled with the best cider bits can buy, they took the first express train to Canterlot, found Sweetie’s coltfriend, and enjoyed a night on the town. He was surprised to see how encouraging they were, so willing to go along with his ideas. They did not make him feel judged, nor did they try to dissuade him from any particular course of actions. The three of them allowed him to truly be himself that night — and all that it entailed. Even when the actions they undertook felt questionable or dubious in morality, they did not stop him. They wanted to see his true self; as he was and would always be. There had been no magic spell cast upon him, no hex upon the cider. No, he was merely unshackled by the expectations of those around him.

They fell asleep — all three of them — only to wake up in a jail cell at dawn. They never did see the coltfriend again, though they eventually realized he had been in the neighboring cell. Soon they forgot everything about him — even his name. Not because they had agreed to, but simply because they didn’t want to remember. The photograph from the police station proudly adorned the wall of Applebloom’s room ever since.

***

"...and lemme tell ya somethin', if you don't let my friend go right this second, I'm gonna kick you so hard, harder than that Sombra fella did, an’ the folks over at that School of Friendship won't even recognize ya! Y'all will be worse off than a sugarcube in a rain storm, I tell you what!"

There was nothing left to lose for Applebloom. Sans the manticore who looked at her, terrified, from a corner of the cave, the earth pony stood alone yet undeterred. She poured her heart all in yet there was more than enough to demand. She wasn’t going to leave her friends, even in what might very well be death — always together, the three against the world.

A crystalline shimmer radiated through the air, expressing the Tree of Harmony’s approval. There was no doubt — the tree understood. For time immemorial, it has gifted the Elements of Harmony upon the deserving. Once the Elements were no longer needed, they would return to the tree and it would wait as long as necessary until it was needed again.

A burst of prismatic light shone forth, and crystal shells shattered, releasing the Crusaders.

Two shining stars descended from the branches and spread across Scootaloo’s neck, forming a golden necklace with a wing-like diamond in front. Loyalty and Laughter, together, became Resilience, the ability to persevere against all odds. About right, Scootaloo thought. I might still prefer Persistence, but this is even better. She felt that the Tree of Harmony is amused.

Next to her, two more stars, falling from the branches, merged on Sweetie’s chest into a silver necklace with a sapphire in the likeness of a musical note. Generosity and Kindness together gave rise to Selflessness, or Altruism. In her thoughts, Sweetie sent off how grateful she is, and got a short crystal reply, “A gift I am willing to give.”

Then the light rose in intensity even more. "What in tarnation?" Applebloom gasped, shielding her eyes. She found an ivory tiara with an apple-like ruby affixed atop it — the Element of Sincerity, a combination of Friendship and Honesty. Both Applebloom and the Tree knew it was taken — and surrendered — by fight.

They looked to Bittercup, then to the tree. She looked fine, as if the tree had never touched her. The tree seemed serene, quiet, as if it had always been nothing more than a crystalline structure.

Bittercup examined her slightly rainbow-colored, but definitely not stone, hooves.

"I think we— I mean, you passed this test." Bittercup turned to Applebloom and heaved a sigh of relief. "And please, don’t worry, I promise everything will be okay, but I really am out of place here. Your turn… Element Bearers?"

She stepped toward Scootaloo and disappeared. Scootaloo looked at her friends, awkwardly adjusted the Element of Resilience around her neck, stretched her large, even wings, and then ruffled her yellow fur. She carefully approached the manticore. At the touch of her wing, it laid down.

Scootaloo looked back at Applebloom and Sweetie Belle and quietly suggested, "Now let’s see what’s next?"