The Trinity of Moons: Ancillary Mirrors

In Bittercup’s bag Quartz finds only three more bits, a letter, and a tube of feather balm. Nopony opens the letter: without an addressee, the envelope asks to ‘be kept closed til Canterlot pretty please!’. I take the balm though.

No transport we can find will take such a meager sum of bits as payment, so we run North as fast as we can, through rolling hillscapes that eventually lead us into the plains. Rarely before have I seen the grass so diverse yet so unknown — in Metropolis that would be either a personal mix with an ingrained authorship or some mono-species, like bluegrass, clover, or alfalfa. Its smells overwhelm my nose — same sagebrush, licorice, feather grass. The bitter scent was not poisonous, and Poppy reassures me they’re harmless.

Whisper elseonce built a clubhouse, or a base of operations in plains which were pale shadows compared to these. There, under that roof in our home which was nowhere near finished yet, we saw an infusion of the Red for the first time with our own eyes. The house frame held off the infusion somehow — we hadn’t even inserted window glass yet. We — Whisper, Seeplight, Circuit Break, three then as three we always are, survived, if not without burns and wounds inflicted by tiny monsters that rose under the Red's erratic light. The transfer event happened soon after, moving us to the next timeline.

Whisper pushes me a little, to go and check for the house: just a small detour for a third of a day, he says. I resist the push: the house belongs to another life. Poppy lets me know she died not here but much further South. I look back and sense that pretty much all my previous selves are excited to be here, in the sunlit timeline, running with our friends. Shadows or spirits or figments, they still are ponies just enough–

“What did you want, Lure?” Stylus asks, pulling me from the momentary reverie.

“Huh?”

We slow down a little to speak comfortably. Quartz listens in. “When you came to us, what were you expecting? Other than dragons,” he cuts out my first answer. “Clearly not... well, not to appear here with us.”

I – can’t really recall. The series of transfers and rides and briefest terminal conversations in the ciphered cabins shielded from Metropolis itself had been too fast, too intense – I was asked to move on again and again, to pick key cards and learn passphrases. Less than a cycle went by between the first offer and my descent: only one intermediate sleep in a small roadside hotel itself hidden from outside cameras.

But in general the keepers were implying, never stating directly, that there would be a story that I would learn, and a degree of immersion. Something that will help me remember.

This is much bigger than any movie or a direct neural stimulation. I can focus on every minor detail, every hair on Stylus’s muzzle. I feel my body, small twitches of my wings under the cloth cover, soreness of my leg muscles. I hear the bees and see the butterflies that drink nectar rather than blood, and rabbits that stroll through the grass just a little to the West. I can sense the Sun on my right, warm and pleasant, rather than burning through my skin and fur — because the dress works indeed as the protective suit for me. It would not be nearly enough to protect against the Red — it’s like the Sun does not really want to hurt me, just has to do it. I drag my hood lower and keep mindful on where I turn my head — I don’t want to get the Sun in my eyes.

With all that I am here. I have to live now. What I wanted is irrelevant — until we reach the main goal at least. The whole being there is hard to put in words, so I resort to much shorter answer. “I wanted to hear a story about us. Silly me. Let’s focus on your friend, okay?” I hurry to ask what bugs me instead, “Why are we still friends?”

I haven’t really asked it before, and they never told me either.

“Because you took to heart what has happened. Also, you know, you smell pretty much like Bittercup. A little off, sure, but you have to look for trouble to feel that. Changelings really can’t come that close to true smell. It is listed among their limitations in That's Not Your Auntie: A Field Guide to Flawed Transformations. But… What did I say first? You showed genuine empathy. That’s what rings true.” he replies.

“How would it help us any if we were to leave ya be?” Quartz asks, utterly serious. “If anything, we gotta keep our eyes on ya.”

I lose a few steps, then slow down to a halt.

She giggles. “I’m just pullin’ yer tail. Real Bittercup woulda seen through that. But– you’re alright.”

We run until midday. The small villages pepper the great plains ahead of and beside us. Canterlot’s towers shine ahead and above, the crystal castle-city on the tall mountain surrounded by vast forest shining like a lighthouse even in the bright daylight. The glow of this prime gem in the royal crown, while clearly visible, remains a few days away, even running as we are — this is how tall the Canterhorn is in this timeline. Well, in Scootaloo’s timeline too, come to think of it.

I yearn to fly, but I'm happy to just be with my friends. Besides, the sun wouldn't let me spread my wings. Between these desires and the issue a thought is born. I see many airships in the sky above us, but most are heading away from Canterlot– and yet I have to try and garner their attention all the same.

I stop and point a hoof at the sky. Quartz and Stylys, having run ahead with how sudden my halt is, return to me, and I ask.”Look, we have an emergency. Let’s try and pick a ride?”

“But yer wings..?” Quartz frowns, her brown eyes darken in a worry.

“We can work it out, If you help. Please? Your knife, Stylus’s ink paint, and I can fly and speedtalk ponies.”

It takes Stylus’s own approval, but against us two Quartz surrenders. With a sigh, she looks into her bag, then picks out a personally crafted stone knife – the knife actually, because by making it Quartz got her cutie mark. She makes two slits on the sides of my dress. Stylus creates a temporary black coating, a protective cover for my wings – I extend each one separately for painting.

Then we wait.

Once one of the airships appears drifting North. I ask the Crusaders to wait, then fly up and align with the ship. Even the air itself feels different beneath my wings — more buoyant, more welcoming, not a trace of wilder winds. I feel like I can stay here, motionless, no wingbeats at all, and I will still float peacefully.

I test it, if only a little, with results unclear.

Up close, the ship easily can take a cubic nine of small ponies like me — enormous, breathtaking, imposing its presence in the upper cold. The grumpy guards aren’t going to take a dive for us. Definitely not the whole ship… but I hope it won’t be necessary. Not letting the chance go I plea to crewponies instead of guards next — “Our friend’s taken by a monster, we really have to see the Princesses!”. That gathers some compassion, and the crew asks guards to step away and let us in.

They find the tools, and soon they pick us up for the flight in a properly upscaled pet carrier — an airlift, but it feels like a pet carrier — under a promise that we will behave.

I sense powerful magic crackling on the lower cargo deck. Blue lightning flashes across Stylus's horn for a moment. He winces and casts a protective spell. He walks to a batpony in a striped vest, “What’s down there?”

The crewpony sends him off with a quick gesture of a leathered wing.

We look at each other, smile and know without as much as a word that we just have decided to not be taken back by it.

The investigation takes a few approaches — the crew is secretive on this topic. One of the pieces of the answer Stylus gets as a win in a dice game. Another we buy for a couple of bits mostly because the bosun finds the trade funny. For the third I slightly push with my cutie mark magic — I can appear likeable for a few beats if needed.

We don’t approach the few unicorn wizards of the crew, neither ones in long dresses, nor ones in royal armor. Each of them feels ever so slightly threatening to risk it.

The answer comes together though: cargo for the Princesses, urgently requested in the capital from the eastern lands. Nopony is to approach it, and the guards are ordered to engage any trespassers who dare take a single step towards it.

We get the hint. To not appear as trespassers, with our vague answer collated, we do behave, huddled together on the lower deck. It’s much colder out there. As a pegasus, I am okay with that; my friends are not, so we keep a closer cuddle, keeping them under my wings, observing the guards up above: a pretty equal mix of pegasi and batponies.

My magnetic sense shifts in a slightly erratic, pulsing pattern, like an arrhythmic heart, towards the lower cargo deck where the heavily guarded and shielded cargo lies, encrusted both in spells and intricate locks, and the sheer volume of magic lets me feel how absolutely colossal both in size and complexity of defense this cargo is–

Just like when they noticed my own cutie mark, pretty much instantly I know what is wrong, but struggle to believe it at first.

When you are aligned to a Moon, it is like having a deep bond of friendship that makes your hearts beat as one. That's not unlike love too. You know where your Moon is. You can feel her magic, as a mix of glow, music, and smell - all of this at once and yet nothing of it in particular.

When you are really aligned, you can also distinguish Aspects too — particular facets through which her light, her power shines, gently adjusting reality. Schools of magic, if you like.

Blue Moon’s Aspects, always dual in their nature, are really easy to set apart, and I was aligned to Blue for most of my lives. I can sense what they carry down below.

That royal ship, its white-and-blue livery leaving no doubt to its purpose, is carrying Blue Moon’s Nightmares — or Dreams. With Blue it is like two sides of the same stained glass, really.

Not just a dream. Not just a single spell, nor even a spellbook. A whole facet of her glory, tint of her color itself – and as far as I can tell it exists before the Moonrise.

Another small weirdness of alignment is that you trust your Moon. So I do.

I sniffle, full of homesickness for that time, for the feeling of free flight under the sky full of roaming stars; of love and departure; of long dreams and refreshing awakenings; of Metropolis diverse and rich–

–and choose to try and keep silent as I lay upon the polished wooden floor, surrounded by clear mirrors —mirrors that would be an invitation for disaster for most other timelines – while the airship keeps steadily advancing to the capital of Equestria.

At least we won a couple days. To be washed over by the perfect shadow of what the homeland is for me… well, that’s a small price I am totally willing to pay.

Yet this blue wave carries me away. I can’t stop tears, and my friends cuddle closer to me.

The filly walked mostly on her own. She regained consciousness soon after the crash but was pretty subdued even now, maybe too easy to steer — first thing first, Scootaloo was leading her to Ponyville. The stranger was really, really leaning into the older mare. Her steps were weak and uncertain. Minute after minute she pleaded for water or anything else to drink. Torn between not leaving her alone and the hoarse voice itself saying it is vital, Scootaloo beelined home and brought back the biggest bottle of apple juice she had found.

When Scootaloo returned fifteen minutes later, her breath catching and legs giving way a little — she rarely ran so fast without her scooter — the filly was still there. She had crawled to short grass a little off the road, and sat down, her frame slumped.yet head raised towards Scootaloo. Without saying a word, the filly took the bottle in hoof and gulped down nearly half of it.

“That was a three liter bottle,” Scootaloo muttered, somewhat bewildered by the stranger’s extreme thirst.

“When is the Summer Sun Celebration?” she completely ignored Scootaloo’s question and instead asked her own urgently. Her golden eyes shone bright, her voice was song-like, flowing with an elusive, accent Scotaloo couldn’t recognize, “I came from the future— the other future. We have to prevent Nightmare Moon’s return, or she will bring down darkness eternal!”

Scootaloo was quick to answer “Four days ago,” and then her eyes widened. “What? No, that can’t be right. That Summer Sun Celebration was whole eight years ago. And that eternal night lasted… maybe five or so more hours before they fixed it?”

“You sure?” the stranger asked, her eyes immediately full of tears.

Scootaloo firmly nodded. She was not crazy. Princess Luna was about the best pony she ever met, except the Crusaders of course. It wouldn’t be right to prevent that return even if she could!

The filly fixed her gaze on Scootaloo, and the older mare felt a little lost, confused in the golden glow. She heard a question, “Are you absolutely sure?”. It was pleasant to confirm that yes, yes, she was.

“I believe you,” the filly said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bittercup, and now I have no idea what to do and why the hay I left my friends then...” She turned her head away from Scootaloo, ears drooped and legs bent to loafing pose once again.

Scootaloo blinked and shook her head. “Don’t beat yourself up. I’m Scootaloo, and I’m sure me and the other Crusaders can help you find a way back to your friends!”

“You mean that..?” Bittercup asked without turning to look at the upbeat, orange mare.

“Of course. If you found a way to get here, then I’m sure we can find a way to get you back, but you must be exhausted.” Scootaloo helped Bittercup back onto her hooves, “My house isn’t far from here, we’ll get you some rest and get started in the uh...” she noticed the sunrise approaching, “In the afternoon, okay?”

Bittercup nodded back to her, too tired and too worried to speak.

Their walk together was slow in the rising sun. Soon Scootaloo picked Bittercup up her back for the ride.