The Trinity of Moons: Ancillary Mirrors

We ride steadfast upon the dragons. Or, the female dragoness anyway, but I can’t stop myself from thinking about the more epic line. They are wide and stable enough, but I still recall a wind shield and invite the Crusaders to stay beside me. Quartz doesn’t appear to be casting any magic and yet her mere being here, by my side, makes me feel protected, as though I were glued to the slightly curved, polished green scales under my hooves.

Tempest looks at us. She has her own wind protection: a pale cyan ovoid surrounds her, glistening in Luna’s night.

We soon fly off the enclave of the Night and into the midday sun. No longer does it feel like a paper cut out: rather, as it should be, it feels warm, bright, and truly life-giving.

I feel a pang of deep sadness in my gut knowing that it is dying, and we can do nothing to prevent it. Once again, I look away from the rays — its sheer intensity still hurts me; Stylus’ protection has nothing to help my vision, should I be foolish enough to take a direct glance at the sun.

Instead, I take in the crowded streets of Canterlot below, squinting as the reflected light is still too bright for my eyes, especially now that there is no additional shield of the fluttercraft’s tinted porthole glass to protect them. I will not ask for glasses, I resolve, and in a few beats, after a momentary headache, the discomfort softens.

The city floats below, suspended on its thin foundation, cut into Canterhorn’s side. South of it, the deep forest surrounds the mountain, and farther away first rural landscape then open plains where we were running yesterday. The calm, undisturbed Equestria lies out there, serene in the silence, the sort of peace which could come after the gale, before the storm. Former one, the rush of the changeling conflict still fresh in the memories of many, yet steadily fading into the past. And then, unbeknownst to most, the storm of Moonrise comes just before the autumn, in more than a luster, yet less than a month.

A coterie of my other selves, immaterial yet real all the same, gather around, commenting on Canterlot: although many flew over this place before, none have done so in the bright daylight or upon a dragon’s back. None of my other selves know this capital as Canterlot, for that matter — they refer to it with a variety of other names that, while incorrect in this reality, are applicable in others. Much as these other selves and I are one in the same, so too is every instance of Canterlot, no matter what it is called.

I wonder how Scootaloo would feel about all of this — there are easily nine times as many ponies down below than there ever were in her own Canterlot. I try asking her.

I can’t find her: nothing more than a memory of being Scootaloo elseonce.

I try to look harder. But still, I find nothing but a tale I once lived through.

That is already unexpected, but I am all the more confused a moment later when I cannot find Bittercup either. It is hard to describe the difference between these two and other myselves, yet it is harder to not feel it. It’s similar to when you remember somepony you know — or knew — because they recently passed away.

Starting from that farther end, I traverse up the chain of memories within, quickly checking to see if there are any other selves I can no longer feel: Thunder Ripple, Nimble Kite, all the others after them are still with me. Only Scootaloo and Bittercup are missing.

I want to share my concerns with my friends, to tell them that something is wrong within me, while I am not injured in any visible way. But I cannot think of how to do so without panicking them. If I am unable to find them, what chances do my friends have? I decide to wait for calmer circumstances to tell them, there may be a simpler explanation than the countless, frightening scenarios rushing through my mind. Stylus looks at me, then carefully makes a step closer and opens his mouth. I hastily interrupt him before he even speaks, “It’s alright!” and he stops with a small nod. Yet I can feel Quartz frown as she looks towards us.

The dragons carry us, descending from the heart of the city, over the sharp slopes of Canterhorn. My ears pop a little and I shake my head — our carrier suddenly dives, as if making an emergency retreat from a monster.

Just in case, I look behind us. Fortunately there is nothing of the sort, just the rocky bottom of the hanging capital, where the former settlement of batponies could once be found.

I am expecting us to make use of a cave entrance somewhere under Canterlot. In this history, contrary to all others, changelings took over this expansive cave system to infiltrate the royal family, but at this point in time they have already been evicted — pushed back to northern plains where they came from. The caves now serve as mournful memorials into which even the most daring of tourists rarely enter. But surely, the dragons may have a few hidden corridors of their own?

Yet, the dragons take flight heading South-South-West instead, straight to Ponyville. With their speed, I estimate we’ll be there in nine slices at most, thrice as fast as an express train would be.

Something about this feels suspicious. What deal might royal dragons have in Ponyville?

Stylus asks exactly this, word for word, bluntly as he often does.

The male dragon replies in a low voice, a chuckle hidden between his words, “We shall meet Spike, and soon after that you should, I hope, have an adventure accompanied by Fizzlepop Berrytwist.” he chuckles again, his gaze momentarily shifting to the unicorn in question; who is visibly annoyed at his remark, “A time-limited adventure, I should add, because at Moonrise it will be too late to influence it.”

“Why?!” Quartz demands, “We’ve gotta go straight to Bittercup, don’t we?”

“If you insist,” the dragon surrenders after a beat of silence. “You shall have no leader after this junction, Crusaders. No higher entity shall direct you or tell you what to do. But at least consider that, in the most direct sense of the word, the very existence of this world depends on you.”

“Why?” I ask, dumbfounded. His words sound too sincere, as if he is pleading with us. Sure, I wanted to warn the Princesses about the Red… but this feels like far more than any of us could have anticipated. Yet, I can’t deny the promised adventure resonating within me. And he mentioned the Crusaders, not just me!

“Lure, haven’t you felt your world, your timeline, your history, being– a little unreal?” He answers my question with one of his own, flashing a curious smirk.

“No,” I reply.

“Yet it is. It is built upon a great deal of assumptions, changes, and corrections. Like this one, when Princess Celestia wished to understand Princess Luna, and by doing that, avoided ever banishing her own sister. Repeat the best possible wishes many, many times, add a malign influence of the Red Moon, and you arrive at– a fragile reality. You may, if you so choose, make sure it exists after all.”

He goes silent, and, after an uncomfortable silence, Tempest asks him, “Isn’t this the entire reason we’re on this adventure? Isn’t this what our Bureau does?”

“No.” he says as his swift wingbeats quickly carry us across the remaining distance to Ponyville, “And yes. You, too, prepare the Moonrise.”

The dragoness turns her head towards us, smiling. “Don’t worry. it’s not as mysterious as he makes it sound. Just let us visit Ponyville, and you will understand.” Her gaze fixates on me for a moment, pupils dilating “By the way, Lure, consider this: no matter which timeline you find yourself in, Spike is always Spike. Haven’t you ever wondered why that might be?”