The Trinity of Moons: Ancillary Mirrors

by Cloud Ring

Rating: teen
Tags: Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery, Scootaloo, Adventure, Alternate Universe
Length: 29966

Throughout the histories, a few ponies remember.

This description contains spoilers. It is really recommended to track back to the Mending Shards first — but then, you can try and go as is too.

Events of the first novel came and went. The world settled in, under a single Rose Moon for now.

One who elseonce had been Scootaloo remembers herself through timeline shifts. She is not alone in it.

She wonders why are Cutie Mark Crusaders special.

Updates estimated weekly.

Published 2024-06-07 19:20:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-10-18 18:22:00 UTC

Chapter 12: Ponyville, From Outside and Inside

We land at the outskirts of Ponyville. The dragons tower over the four of us: each one could easily look through the second floor window of a pony’s house, without stretching their necks.

Now that I think about it, I’m really not sure how this Ponyville aligns with similar towns in other timelines within my memories. Through all of them it retains distinct similarity to itself, yet it often shifts around, assuming different styles and colors. I can remember this community being in one of the S-sectors, or predominantly under the stern influence of White Moon. It holds at least some details of Scootaloo’s Ponyville consistently, but there are occasional oddities. Oak Library shifts around the town. Carousel Boutique can be absent, or split in parts between sisters, who in some elsewhens can be more than two. Most often they are two though — just Rarity and Sweetie Belle. Opal as a pony, or Esteem… I saw them, yes, but rarely so.

Here, on a warm and sunny day, with pure white clouds sprinkled sparsely across the sky, I see the differences too. Carousel Boutique is replaced by the sprawling factory complex of Rarity Belle Industries Inc. Apple Acres are not just away from the main town, but at a much greater distance, with a lane paved in orange stone leading to the gardens. Also according to the road sign it is known simply as Apple Acres, in two words, not three, apparently not that sweet anymore… if it ever was, in this timeline.

I want to fly much closer to the town than the dragons were gliding so I can get a better picture of it, but two thoughts make me hesitant: Stylus’s protection against sunlight isn’t permanent, and Tempest is keeping an eye on me. Knowing that the protection won’t last too much longer makes me eager to hurry, but making too sudden a move might startle Tempest and I don’t want to see how she deals with surprises. I have no doubts she can bring me down at a beat’s notice.

So, naturally, I go to her and explain myself but take off before getting an answer. I expect her to start blasting at me, and relax myself to recall evasive measures if needs be.

She doesn’t shoot me. I am not afraid she might.

Although, okay, I am a little… tense about it.

I fly across this Ponyville. I gaze upon it, trying to see the town for what it truly is.

I still don’t feel Bittercup… and without her I see this Ponyville through the lens of an outsider. Like I’m looking at a faded mnemogram of a place that no longer exists.

The town is… Rather spacious, for a lack of better words. Between each and every plainly colored house is a distance of at least a few throws. Sure, I see pointers and pathways, straight rows of poplars or cedars accompanying them. A few ponies trot along the roads. Behind a couple of them I see carts with greenery or vegetables… and yet, the town feels empty. Quiet, too – no chatter, no parents shouting to their foals or talking to them. Speaking of foals… I glance around and see only one group of them playing in an open field. Despite three playgrounds in the town, capable of hosting dozens of foals and fillies, they are left barren in favor of a grassy landscape. There are no signs of adults nearby, leaving these foals unheard and unsupervised.

The community square at the town hall sits empty too. A part of me wants to say this is all wrong, but my memories disagree. I still have some of those from Bittercup’s timeline, disjointed and distant flashes, much more coherent about Spike’s Ogres and Oubliettes adventure, and they align with what I see.

But I can’t send off this unnerving realization: this is the biggest yet most hollow Ponyville I have ever seen in all my lives.

This feeling isn’t even objectively correct! In Metropolis the streets and limits often sprawled much, much wider.

And yet, I cannot unsee it. The more I send the nagging thought away, the more insistently it returns: this Ponyville feels stretched and gigantic without any justifiable reason for it.

So I return to the dragons with a vague unease in my heart.

“Where are we meeting Spike?” I ask, glancing back at the empty town behind.

The dragoness arches her neck down to me. “Here. We would rather not step into the town. Monsters and mere non-ponies visit it so rarely, the fair citizens of Ponyville may lose their peace of mind just noticing our presence. Come, bring him to us, and we’ll talk.”

I wince, summing this reply up with my own impressions. I look at my friends: to my surprise, they don’t seem to be alerted by this reply at all.

This… is so strange. In no other history I can recall could Ponyville be labeled a place of ignorance and cowardice. It had always been the informal district of Friendship, the last refuge of those denied the right to be counted among ponies. Through all the annals of histories they met strangers with open hooves.

For a moment I ponder that, perhaps, I am not here to stop Red. Maybe my goal and reason for being here lies elsewhere? Yet I do not know how to express those thoughts to my friends without causing undue stress.

“Was Ponyville always that empty?” I ask.

“Is it though?” Stylus asks back.

“Remember Canterlot. Whole crowds of ponies were there…” I don’t continue at first, but he looks at me as though my words are foreign to him, so I finish awkwardly by adding, “And there is nopony here?”

My friends look at each other, not at all bothered by this disparity. Quartz shrugs. “Ain’t see a pinch of trouble here. Town’s tiny.”

I nod, defeated.

We three, Quartz, Stylus, and I, set out to the town. After a moment of hesitation, Tempest Shadow follows us. The dragons stay behind: they step closer to each other, lie down, partially unfold their wings, and intertwine their necks.

There is no wall but a small border post split to the sides of the main road. Nopony comes out to look at us as we approach. On their walls, banners from the most recent changeling war are accompanied by hazard signs showing detailed instructions on how to detect an invader. Low to the ground is a dull gray string with runes woven into it, but it appears dormant. Upon closer look, I see that a tripwire spell once resided in these runes was discharged some time ago. I glance through a window of the border post: inside is a tan earth pony reading a newspaper. She neither raises her head from the paper or waves us through, either ignoring us or indifferent to our presence.

“Quartz,” I turn to her and ask “Could you lead the way to Pinkie Pie’s house? You’re familiar with Ponyville’s layout, right?” Pinkie Pie is a good sign. She always had been a good sign — and I feel in need of one.

Quartz tilts her head to the side, flicking an ear. “I could, yeah, but I reckon she’s probably hangin’ at Sugar Cube Corner like usual and it’s on the way. Why not swing by there first and then check her house?”

I freeze up for a moment. It’s hard to explain why, exactly, I am so hesitant to approach the bakery. Just from a glance it looks so unwelcoming: a roof made of uneven shingles, windows so narrow they resemble the slitted iris of a snake, and floors so uneven in size that it looks ready to topple over. I couldn’t say all of that to her, so instead I simply ask Quartz, “Could we steer away from it?”

She looks at me like she is moments away from asking back something like For feather’s sake, why, dingus?

Quartz didn’t actually say that. She honored my request and in the few additional turns upon these quiet roads, we see a few more things which Bittercup likely would have recalled for me, if she hadn’t vanished from my coterie of souls: a few petrified changelings on a lawn, one trapped preparing to dash at its then target. I don’t think it is just a statue, no: the group is clearly held back by a slowly pulsing ward spell, and a stretch of royal airship cloth covers them. Then, a living house blocked off by striped tape with a hole in the front yard, with violet smoke, or maybe bubbling liquid, swaying inside. A smell emanates from the hole. Though faint, it was pervasive and disorienting; we take another detour away from that. At least this time my friends are no less concerned and confused about these sights than I am.

Pinkie Pie, the capricious embodiment of laughter, meets us on the road, just a few throws from her house. It’s almost like she got there knowing full well we were coming to visit her, to intercept us midway. Actually, I think that is exactly what she is doing.

She looks a little different too — still bright and cheery but with her hair tied back into a tight bun and a set of black stockings over all four of her legs. They don’t hinder her springy gait in the slightest. With a small, happy tune, she greets us all; I am not surprised when she addresses me as Lure — it looks like everypony in the world knows about me. That could be a joke, except I don’t really feel it as one. I met her many times through different timelines, including the latest one where she was an avatar of Rose Moon, who, well, is in part and totality the Red as well. Pinkie, however, always, always was a good omen – a promise in itself that everything will be alright.

“Where are you going?” she asks with an upbeat yet accusatory cadence, singling me out. At the same time she gestures for Tempest to come closer, which the unicorn does.

“To Spike,” I answer, “For dragon matters.” I add when she keeps staring. “Other dragons want to have a talk to him,” I surrender because these blue, unblinking eyes all but drill into me.

She hugs Tempest with her forelegs, “If that’s not my beloved bat!” She does air quotes with two hooves which seem to originate from just outside my field of vision, but Tempest looks more confused by this address than the defilement of reality. So are we for that matter, but it’s best not to question how Pinkie Pie does these sorts of things.

I am always happy to see her.

Right now, though, the joy feels muted.

“Let’s go meet Spike together!” Pinkie exclaims. “This world needs its heroes, after all, to keep all the doom and gloom at bay!” She looks at me, again, with a friendly smile, “I waited for you here. Just Pinkie Promise that first we explain things to Spike. You know, before letting your big, scaly, new friends get a word in edge-wise!”

“Why?” I ask, perhaps foolishly yet hopefully.

“So they don’t spoil the feast I have planned, duh!”

With that, she jams a donut into my mouth, then one more for each of my friends, and a cupcake for Tempest.

It tastes delicious, and by the end of it, with buttery warmth in my belly, I find myself feeling like I forget to ask something. I just, for all the love of Blue Moon, cannot remember what exactly it is I need to ask.

I let that concern slip away: I’m sure there will be time for that later.

Prologue: Down Below

They said I have to remember this obvious fact, so I will: even though Metropolis sometimes recognizes Scootaloo’s shard in my soul, I am not Scootaloo.

My talent isn’t like hers. I have a single, deep blue, wilted flower on my cutie mark. I have functioning wings, my colors are nowhere near close to hers — yellow coat, bright green mane, golden eyes.

Scootaloo’s shard only rarely shines bright enough to be seen in me. Cutie Mark Crusaders always were less of their own ponies and more of their trinity. This holds, by the way: as a team in each history we sometimes get and tell insights about true meanings of cutie marks. This happens only when we are together. Not now.

On this journey I am alone for now. A local keeper will meet me soon if all is going to go well.

I am going to reach those other histories — other timelines, Black Moon would say. Not past ones — I feel them more of being sideways. I am going to meet the dragons. With that, as the keepers heavily implied, I am going to help the Trinity. At least I hope so.

Another, the most important difference between me and Scootaloo — she was living about a square nine of histories away... and in a sense, I am getting closer to her right now.

The elevator is going down. I lost count of my heartbeats long ago, but at least I am not stuck in the middle of nowhere, out of the Moon’s sight. I am still going somewhere, deeper down with each beat. My wings twitch — it is too cramped in the elevator cell. Metropolis, knowing that I am in there, keeps Her silence. Small lights flicker with the elevator swaying under my hooves.

The elevator speeds up for a while, then comes to a stop in a really harsh way — I feel a hard unseen load pressing down on me, bending my legs, pressing me into the floor with a weight of a few loaded container crates.

I experienced that — among the many tasks I performed to get here, I had to carry a few crates of soul reimplantation equipment. They are heavier than they appear.

Now at the bottom of the shaft, I stand up. I should hold up, should stay brave. Ponies aren’t supposed to know this place exists, let alone know entrances to it, let alone–.

Yet, I am here now. No turning back.

It takes me a few more beats to step through the open lattice-wired door. Beyond it, no guardrails or corridors, just a narrow platform built from the same wire mesh. It hangs in the wide open air — the open space stretches all around, filled by white artificial lights.

I can fly here. Really fly — the outstanding vastness feels no less than the sky left above. Of course the sky should be wider than that. It has to be wider even if I count the Net stretched all above Metropolis.

I can’t resist the urge. I hover. No thinking, no worries: I flow in the clean air under the white luminosity — not White Moon’s, just pretty sterile white. The ceiling remains well up above. I can climb even higher if I want. I feel the steady artificial winds. After this elevator ride, so long that at least nine times I wished for it to end already, I’m happy to spread my wings and put them to use.

So I adjust the winds with my magic and let them carry me over the enormous facility. It felt almost impossible to ever fit underground — had I been transported to some other dimension, or was the space processed by Black Moon’s art to contain much more inside than it seems to appear outside? The conditioned air fills all the space under the ceiling. That ceiling appears ordinary, except being impossibly high — I would need a slice to reach it, or more. The size of the lamps above doesn’t really change when I climb up or glide down.

Is the facility built to have space for something much bigger than me? That feels strangely exciting.

Down below, computers pepper the floor in black dots, hum contentedly, their polygonal pattern never exactly repeats. I can see no end to them however much I strain my eyes.

The flow carries me deeper still; sometimes other tunnels branch out at sharp angles side by side from the main one. Each is designated for remembrance of one particular timeline, each as near infinite as the current one.

I move to glance into them but come back disappointed — from outside they look exactly the same. Only Metropolis Herself knows the full reach of the temporal change.

Another pegasus climbs up to me from the ground level eventually: adult, pale blue, with the Mark of a sharp black lightning on her flank. “Dartline,” she lets me know curtly.

“Lure,” I tell back in the same tone. Let her make the first step.

“Saucy much, for a filly?” she asks, blushing slightly.

“First, I was aligned to Blue Moon for most of the timelines. Those ones where I was a colt too. Second, I love this name. Third, you reacted just like and why I love it.”

She giggles, covering her mouth with a hoof.

It takes her a moment to proceed for what I suppose is the main thing. “Funny that you remember Blue Moon. Probably the Trinity too.”

I don’t know what to say. I am here because I remember. Because I want to remember more.

Because I want to see the dragons.

“I’m curious. So, how does it feel to remember? How are you not crazy when everything is not like it was? How old are you?” There really is no pause, no breath taken in between of those questions.

I don’t have to query Metropolis to see the azure blue glow of the shard in her soul, bold and unrelenting as Rainbow’s shards always are. I always love Rainbow Dash. I don’t mind admitting it in this history. In earlier ones maybe I would, but the current Rose Moon supports being open and honest with your feelings.

Yet, there are too many questions, none of them simple, each one pretty on point. Just like Rainbow Dash, to think about it. I glide away from my companion. “Please choose one.”

“One what?” she asks, smiling

“One question. Except for that last one,” I glance at her, returning the smile.

“Do I have to choose?” she pouts. “Alright. What does it feel like to remember all those histories?”

“Aren’t you too, from at least one past history?” I stall for time — it is not that easy to tell.

She doesn’t answer right now. First, with her guidance we dive down in a seemingly bottomless vertical shaft, a particular one among others. She falls right next to me. “Others lead not where you want to go,” she comments. “Some for weaponry, others for maintenance corridors. Now we’re going to ancillary mirrors. Keep up, it will be cold there for a while.” The white lights rush from the depth up. Just as she warns me, the wind grows freezing — I recall minor weather protection to counter it somewhat.

We take turns, guided by Dartline, always airborne. Sometimes we wait for an iris diaphragm barrier to open. A couple of times I see a cautioning color code from the Trinity of Moons: orange-yellow-orange arranged in a triangle. The cold remains oppressive, but my protection holds for now.

“Well, I am. I remember the Trinity of Moons. I was born under their light, sure,” at last she finds a beat to reply before I either repeat my question or answer hers. “When they fell, I was right there — two histories back, at the heart of the Revolution. But that’s it. Since that, I am here, protected from timeline changes. I have only one life.”

The protection begins to ablate away, and the cold chews at me. I buck up and keep the descent. I would rather not show my weakness before Rainbow Dash -- even though she is not exactly Rainbow Dash.

“Then it’s the same as to have one life, just many times over.” I smile, letting the joke hang. “In each history, until the unbound age, I am reborn without memories. Then they come back, lay over one another. Scootaloo, Bittercup, Whisper, Poppy, many others. I have parents in this history too. I have friends–”

“Other Crusaders?”

“Yep. It’s the same with them. When the memories come… we remember being there as the world around us melts, rebuilds itself. Our bodies, names, lives change too along with the new world.”

“Wait,” she hovers, and I groan internally. It’s so freaking cold out there. I have to keep cool before her. “Why do you think it is the many lives, not one with weird memories?”

“We remember who we were in past timelines, you see? And it works together between us three. And the transfer event feels distinct when we come through it. We aren’t lost in it — we move, flow across each next change of the timeline. At the farthest end of the myselves chain… I am still the same pony, I guess.”

At least after that answer she finally begins to fly again, and I follow.

“So, why did you come to us?” she asks.

“Applebloom, or Quartz, or Resonance– she’s unbound now. We wait for her to come back. When she returns, she’ll remember, and we’ll move to the next timeline again. I want to learn why we are like that. The keepers said it’s tied to dragons, and I want to meet the dragons too. That’s about it.”

“So you never grow up?” she asks, now with a tint of compassion.

“What do you mean?” Here it comes, I sigh internally. “I awake into adulthood. Always.”

“You don’t look like an adult,” she says bluntly.

“I guess I don’t,” I concede.

At the bottom of the shaft we stand in awkward silence. I look around, not knowing exactly what I’m looking for, just that it is too bucking cold in here.

She picks me up on her back and carries me well away from the shaft to find a heater in a wall recess. No-nonsense, as Rainbow always is. Other ponies would say it’s rude. It helps. I spread and fluff my wings to warm them up in the flow from the giant wall fan. Dartline joins me. She looks at me with some doubt, and just in case I tell her again, just to make sure she understands. She is a keeper after all. Even now she can just — don’t let me in.

“Here’s why I came here. I have questions, and I need answers. I wonder why all the histories need us. This trinity of Cutie Mark Crusaders. I want to know before Resonance returns. I think we never move to the next timeline before all three remember. It couldn’t be that all histories have some mysterious cutie mark issues for us to solve, could it? Or that we never gathered up our quota of tree sap?”

I don’t really believe that last one. Well, maybe a little. I look at her to see if she follows. “We were just ponies. Not Bearers of the Elements, or anypony else worthy of immortality.”

She nods, “As a Herald of Metropolis, I am willing to help you with your inquiry, Lure. Or do you prefer Scootaloo after all?”

“No, not Scootaloo. Bittercup, please, if you really find Lure too saucy. Not only do I remember Bittercup fondly, but I share the entirely same colors with her. Even our cutie marks are pretty similar. That life I first grew a taste for adventures. Scootaloo herself was too bitter her folks left her for adventures.”

I feel grateful, and this feels like a time to say goodbye. I had been warned: probably my memory will not retain the precise means of my journey to visit past histories. The keepers prefer to hold their secrets. It would be a pity to forget Dartline too. I come to her and hug her tight. She doesn’t mind.

“Alright, Bittercup. Let’s see what we have for you in other histories.”

“Will there be dragons?” My wings flutter. I came here for adventures. And dragons.

“Sure.”

Chapter 1: At the Campfire

I expected a transition. It does not happen — or if it does, I don't recall it. I don't know what either would imply. I am not supposed to experience the transition itself.

That much I remember, at least.

The senses come to me slowly, one after another while I float in the foggy, reasonless surety that it all will be alright. But, with each passing beat, I can feel the world as it comes into focus.

I feel warm and relaxed at a self-made campfire in the hilly, moonlit surroundings. The wind carries the scents: sagebrush and licorice, feather grass and juniper. A river flows to my left — I hear gentle babbling of water on the rocks, a soft splash of a fish. A bright blue tent stands nearby. I have been traveling, it seems. My magnetic sense stays calm — the polar direction clearly defined, no storms, no active electronics or electrical power supplies around. It is peaceful there.

At the same time other memories slowly come from within me, or I recall them. It is hard to know which of the two is more true. One after another, they surface.

Poppy, I remember. She was a gardener, stubborn and silent. One of myselves who died, I think: poisoned in the wilderness. In a sense, it was her who recognized the smells and let me get the general sense of where I am — great plains nearby, likely arid climate.

Bittercup, l remember too. The one who loved roleplaying games, was intense, insisting, relentless, and had too many romantic interests for her life.

Roadtrip. The one who aimed to cross the whole world with our trio. We moved to the next life before our yacht arrived at Polar Haven. He, an explorer, got together soft sounds of the river so I could understand them.

The most recent among us all, born under Rose Moon, I am… I am still Lure. I wished for an adventure. I went down into the enormous facility into the bowels of Metropolis. I met Dartline.

Now, as I sit here at an unknown camp in the wilderness, I feel mildly surprised. This is not what I waited for going underground. I don’t know what I was expecting though. I never considered it in any details — the travel to enter the elevator was too frantic, urgent, demanding. No time to breathe out and think about it.

I thought that maybe I will watch a really immersive movie, or listen to some stories. I was told there will be dragons.

Where am I? When am I?

The latter question gets its answer soon. “Bittercup,” a filly calls me from where the plains lie. “Ya awake? Did ya hear them lightnings? Two strikes, and both real strong.”

“Yep, here, and no, I heard no thunder. But maybe they got me awake?” I stand up, stretch and turn to her. I see — and at once I remember from the farthest end of my lives — Quartz: a white earth pony, with gray mane and a slab of crystal stone on her flank. She looks at me back, her head tilted. Is something wrong already? Wheels in my head turn. “Just had a bad dream, Quartz. Come, sit down.”

She comes, and I exhale: the name fits. I haven’t messed this up at least.

“A really bad dream,” I shudder. “Look, I know how it sounds, but… look at me. Am I all right? Anything weird with me?”

She looks at me first, just as I asked, then looks at me again with her classic wordless don’t leave me hangin’, dingus. Half-ready to laugh, half-angry, her deep brown eyes sparkle, reflecting the campfire. I lose myself in them. “You're alright," she judges, "Just the same Bittercup who done got me worried. You wanna 'splain?”

I try the standard test which we do on each other each time we return, “Do you remember the game with Spike? When you were a warrior and I asked you to sacrifice yourself? The night of Moonrise?”

“Nah,” she looks at me. “Hol’ up, no spoilers! That there’s a good game, I tell ya, and if you peek at Spike’s notes, I– hold on.” She narrows her eyes “I was jokin’ but it looks like ya really peeked at Spike’s notes. That’s right weird. You wouldn’t do that.”

I facehoof, then put my other hoof to her mouth, “How long ago did we begin it?”

“A couple months ago. You hit yer head, right?”

She said a couple months. Not lusters. My heart sinks a little, both with fear and with the ‘maybe we can still save the world’-iness.

“Where did Stylus go, and when will the sun rise?” I don’t stress the second question at all.

“He's down by the river, stargazin', and whenever Princess Celestia wakes up. I reckon it could be a few hours yet. Why you askin'?"

“Just a thought. I’ll tell you something cool in the morning, once I've had a chance to really think it through, I promise. Not sure if the joke works out yet. And about Spike’s game… could you maybe forget I slipped up? Please? I didn’t peek, honest, but this is complicated…”

She frowns, “Mighty shifty of ya, Bit.”

I can hear that myself. I simply nod, embarrassed. “Look, let it all be til the morning. To pile up weird requests — what’s one more for the tomorrow talk? — can you lead me to Stylus? I just want to see if he's alright.”

Thankfully, she just nods, and doesn’t press on.

As we trot to the river, I feel like I have to be mortified to the core but instead I am excited. This is a timeline right after the very first one — so distant I barely remember it. I will see the true sun as it once had been, observe the blend of tech and magic in Equestria untainted by the Red. And of course dragons, and other creatures roaming free on the land and in the sky are waiting for me too.

We find Stylus and join him in stargazing. I stretch, looking deep into the sky. Even the stars are different: no fast moving traces crossing through all the sky, only the gorgeous, bright, stationary constellations, and a single white moon. Not a Moon, without any magic color — just Luna’s moon. No need to check in advance where the nearest vault is.

In the morning I will have some answering to do. But that’s an issue for the next cycle me. I begin to fall asleep again after a few small exchanges with Stylus: calm and attentive, a little locked down into himself as in this life – I remember – he always was.

Buckle up, Bittercup, I tell myself, smiling. I think it is still midsummer here. We should still have a few lusters– months– before the sun dies. We should have plenty of time to warn Princesses about the Red. We can then go on a proper adventure.

No dreams come to me on this short summer night.

Chapter 2: In the Tent

I wake up startled, because the sun burns.

With a scream of pain I blindly roll over into the river. I dive nose first, pierce the water. Clouds of fine sand from the riverbed rise around me. An uneven hum fills my ears, Eyes now open, I see fish shadows wiggling away from me. I don’t feel too cold yet: the night was short, and my wings flatten more to my sides and back to protect me from the cold of the water. The flow carries me away but I am not in pain anymore, shielded by the high bank. I swim closer to it to stay protected for longer, and surface to take a deep breath.

Only then I begin to gather what just happened. So many times I was hiding from Red’s deadly gaze that everything in these beats was not me. Just a survival instinct.

I breathe in, deeply. I want to cry – I so hoped it would be alright here, in this quiet and peaceful world.

Calm down, Bittercup. Calm down and think, the same instincts of many lives tell me. For starters, the burn is not toxic. Not like the Red’s. I just—

“What’s going on?! Bittercup, are you alright?” Stylus calls from my right. He sounds like that was not the first call, just that I didn't hear him from underwater.

“Please bring me the tent. Right here, at the shore. I’ll explain!” I shout back.

He gallops away. Not a beat later I hear a loud splash — Quartz doesn’t bother to be graceful in her belly flop.

I swim to her, still under the bank's cover. "Well now, you ain't alright. Are ya?" she asks. At the surface, she sounds bright, yet flattened ears show her worry.

I can only nod. “It’s not that bad, I think. But I– I’m afraid I really have a lot of troubles now. It’s complicated. I promised you some answers — I’ll give them, just… the sun burns!”

Her eyes widen. “Well, shoot.”

“I’ll explain once we’re in the tent. For the both of you at once, okay?”

It takes time, and carefully prepared protection against the Sun. For it, Stylus summons an opaque black barrier for me when I explain it is about the sun — for me to reach the safety of the tent and breathe. He always was good with ink-associated spells. I can’t deny this one feels creative.

The tent gets more than a few splotches of black ink drippings, but soon we all sit under the cover together, and Stylys dispels his barrier.

I can’t really stop shivering. It was so painful, so sudden. So wrong. This burn would be– not alright — but maybe at least a little expected in any other history, not in this one.

They cuddle with me. They let me be for now, without asking, even though they clearly have some questions.

After a while Quartz breaks the silence. "So," she begins, her voice carefully neutral, "You gonna tell us what in tarnation just happened? One minute you're snorin' away, next you're takin' a sunrise dip, screamin’.”

They move a little away from me, looking at me intently.

“I wanted to see the dragons.” I catch myself sniffing.

In hindsight, probably, that wasn’t the best answer. They stare at me. Stylus covers his mouth with his hoof, giggles a little. “Spike is not a dragon enough for you? And how is this even an answer?” he asks.

“Do you remember any other lives? Well… for you, another life? Applebloom and Sweetie Belle?” I call for them like they are here. I see them in my mind’s eye: Stylus has Sweetie’s eyes, now I see it clearly. Quartz speaks pretty much like AB does.

Nothing answers, but as the silence draws, as I see them looking inside, towards the space they don’t know they have– for a few beats I hope it will.

They shake their heads. Stylus grabs a candy from his bag, chews thoughtfully and nods for me to go on.

“Well, I do. It is… I don’t think past lives are the right words. Alternate lives, more so. I have… a square nines of ponies who, too, were me.”

“Eighty-one spirits, huh?” Stylus tilts his head.

Oh, this head tilt. There was a running joke for me between him and Quartz, his third cousin. Both were showing really fiery emotions sometimes, and could assume this face of blank confusion paired with this tilt on top of it. I can’t stop myself, really. I have to defuse it somehow. “You’re still sure you aren’t a little kirin, are you?”

This hits. They relax a little. “You prank us to be a time traveler, or a ghost, like in mystery Sci-Fi movies, right?” Stylus asks.

Quartz presses her muzzle into my coat and opens her mouth a little as she inhales, “I dunno... You smell like you, Bittercup. But somethin' just feels wrong.”

“Because it is!” I cry. “The sun burns as if it were the Red. It wasn’t doing that before. I was thinking it’ll be simple. Just look for the other lives, find why we return, find myself a cool adventure. And what now?”

“Tell us more,” Stylus requires. “What is this Red? How does it work?”

I sigh, close my eyes, and begin to recite my names, Scootaloo first. They stop me in the first nine, but listen closely otherwise. They cannot grasp how bad the Red is: they have no reference frame for it. Sweetie Belle and Applebloom would have, but in this history there were no alicorn monsters to compare to — not yet. Discord could do but this timeline managed him so much more discreetly.

I don’t try to truly reach them in this regard. Some knowledge is better left unknown. I tell them about the Moons, about the death of the sun which comes in a few months. How well shaped is our city, how diverse it is under the appreciating Moons’ lights, so different yet almost never competing with each other. I leave out the Revolution — that would be too complicated to weave in the story. Bittercup loved storytelling, she tried herself as a Game Master, and I went with her flow. They listen, fascinated. I speak of S-sectors where the destination depends on where you look and if you are looking at all.

“Could we build a maze with that effect for Hearth's Warming Eve?” Stylus inquires. “I think I have an idea…”

“No, I don’t think so. You’ll need Black Moon’s glory for that. When you’ll have that glory in a few timelines,” I smile as my heart sinks a little — you can’t see Black Moon’s light unless you are aligned to her, and you can’t forget it ever. I need a beat to hold out the nostalgia and finish the thought, “then the maze will be the least of your concerns.”

I look at them, feeling more and more like Bittercup. Only Bittercup would find them both so pretty, so pleasant to just stay with. If not for this burn, I would likely never speak to them about it in so many details. It was a joy to simply be in their company.

They ask me to continue. They listen, and I tell more.

How not every me moves forward to the next life: some of my side-selves, I can guess, die before the world changes. How barely any creatures or races remain besides ponies; and how I want to see the dragons. How I descended to the depth of Metropolis and, against all expectations, arrived here.

How both of them accompany me through other lives, again and again, once memories of the past lives return.

They are disturbed at first by the scale of the upcoming change, but I do my best to reassure them it is not so bad. That we thrive, we are happy in our own way. A little, but they do believe me at the end. Stylus wants to visit our reality for a little while, if only to steal a few cool devices and stories to tell in our school; I feel inexplicably proud. Quartz stays more wary.

I avoid the very first history, Scootaloo’s one. That is too complicated to explain for now, mostly because of alicorn monsters again. I would rather not touch Nightmare Moon altogether. I mention we are in the second timeline though.

When I finish the explanation and we all see that I barely can get under direct sun rays without my coat slowly charing away, in a soft, pretty invisible smoke which smells of burned cherries — I can almost hear Stylus giggling inside as he diagnoses me.

“I see. You are a vampony-isekai from the dark future. That’s cool.”

They laugh, not at me thankfully. Well, put like that… I join them.

“Well, guess we ain't got much choice. Sun needs savin', we gotta figure out how." Quartz says.

I hate to break it to her. I need a moment to reply through the sudden bitterness of tears in my mouth.

“When I elseonce approached Black Moon about that, she said–”

I pause for a few more beats to adjust for the units they’d understand.

“It is too late already. It has been too late for a few hundreds of years now. Sun is done. Sorry. But,” I hurry up, stumbling, “We can still stop the Red!”

Chapter 3: In the Hoofsteps

We are not that far from Canterlot. Just a few hours of running towards the train station, then a day on an express train. Or we could get there even quicker with an emergency portal station.

But we have too few bits between the three of us — five between Quartz and Stylus as they dig deep into their bags. I have nothing on me — nothing at all. I have no bag. In this trip we aren’t supposed to need money — we have a couple weeks more to first travel deeper South, then slowly return home while summer vacation lasts.

In hindsight, that could’ve served us a hint about an incoming trouble right then, as we were scraping for coins. Because I have no bag.

In fact the trouble happens a slice later - I mean, twenty-five minutes later, with twenty-five itself base-10, not base-9. I struggle with these conversions: most of my lives were spent… well, not in this timeline, obviously. Rather, those ones where base-9 is accepted and ‘days’ aren’t even a word. Anyway, it wouldn’t happen for another 25 minutes. First, we had breakfast.

After breakfast, they improvise my protection from a bed cloth, Stylus working a pattern onto it so it looks less like a ghost costume for Winter’s Mist Night, and more like a simple dress. I see his white tail flicking, his posture tense — I see it by his hind half which is in my view at that beat. Even his gray coat fluffs up a little.

“What?” I ask.

“Your cutie mark,” he says, “What is it, Bittercup?”

I instinctively call up my Bittercup memory. It comes with the Mark clearly seen in my mind's eye. All of my lives always do. Poppy provides the correct name for the flower.

“A single deep blue aconite flower. Green stalk, the hood-like flower facing outward, the inwards of the flower fully exposed for the viewer. Why?”

“And it is– can you describe it more, please?”

I don’t feel so good about his request.

“A healthy, tall stalk. Once again, a single flower, although natural aconite comes in racemes..?”

“Well, no. I mean, yes. I mean, no. Where is the real Bittercup, and what have you done with her?”

Quartz shoos him aside before I begin to properly panic. She speaks in her usual lower tone, calm and confident, or at least appearing so. “Well now, that there flower on your flank’s wilted really bad. It was right purty when we left Ponyville. I reckon, with all your tall tales, Stylus got a right to be frettin’. I trust ya, I do, but this here's mighty suspicious. Are you one of them changelings?”

Now I begin to properly panic. I know this other cutie mark with the wilted flower all too well without a glance, and am too afraid to see. When I was Lure Stardust, the one who descended into the depths of Metropolis, I saw it every time I took a bath.

It doesn't belong in this history. It stays, scanned in every detail, in databases in Rose Moon’s timeline. Lure’s timeline.

“Did I have a bag with me yesterday morning?” I ask. I feel sapped, and the question comes out flat.

“‘Course ya did. Why wouldn’t ya?”

Well, that’s it. I went into the elevator with no wearables at all. That was the condition set by keepers. “Look right under my head, at the top of the neck, from the topside, anything unusual?”

I tilt my head forward to help them look. They push my fur apart, and I hear Stylus’s quiet gasp, “What is it?”

I don’t even try to explain. I feel awful. They leave me shivering on the tent’s floor.

Minutes later they come back and confirm that I’ve replaced their friend. They saw Bittercup’s discarded bag, lost in the grass a quarter of a mile away, in a round circle burned out by a lightning strike. Apparently she walked away from the camp: Stylus's spell helped to follow the track in the tall grass. Oily black ink highlighted Bittercup’s steps along the straightest line. They end right at the lonely orange bag in the middle of nowhere. Right next to it, there is my own trace in the opposing direction which ended at the campfire.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper.

I can’t yet come to terms with that. I am Lure. Not the consciousness transferred as I had deduced at first, just myself, transported whole, with my neural connector, my own body, my own cutie mark.

If so, I have to manage. I had a lot of circumstances in my lives. I will manage — everything, the Sun not excluded. If needed, I could leave my friends behind too — they’d be right to send me away after that.

No, I felt devastated about Bittercup. The real Bittercup. At best, she is entirely lost — lightning bolts like these suggest to me a form of teleportation. At worst she’s dead, and I am to blame, because who else?

I make my choice: I would rather let the Red be than let Bittercup go. The Red, if this comes to that, is a matter of a single warning to Princesses, probably in a letter even.

But I replaced an innocent, happy pony, just because I wanted to see the dragons. I will correct the issue.

They don’t send me away. Not yet. I gather myself enough to tell them plainly what I elseonce learned from Black Moon, “Lightnings like these can happen when somepony teleports between the dimensions. To Dreamscape, or Everside, or to another world entirely. Mirrors can be portals too but you have no big mirrors with you, right?”

They don’t answer me. They need to gather their bearings first. Yet, they don’t leave me.

My thoughts involuntarily shift to real Bittercup. Where is she?

Scootaloo wasn’t sleeping well this short midsummer night. Her dreams were too full of mirrors with faces not her own, of labyrinths without exit, of Princess Luna which was not Nightmare Moon yet resembled her too much. Scootaloo was returning there again and again, each stretch of nightmare -- an eternity. She was turning her pillow on the cold side, but heat and nightmares stood oppressive. She was done fighting it well before the sunrise.

The nightmare came back again and again, ever since that camping trip to Winsome Falls six years ago. She wasn’t going to tell anypony — that trip she learned to trust Princess Luna. In the years after she learned to adore Luna. Obviously, by sending these nightmares the Princess was giving her another, yet unknown lesson.

Tomorrow was Sunday: with the night mostly lost for sleep, she could always take a day nap, right? With that in mind, she picked up her scooter and took it for a long ride outside Ponyville and around, to the northern plains.

Still sleepy, she held well nonetheless, just sometimes nodding off for a moment: the rides in the night, wind in her mane, where she had no chance to run over anypony at all, were safe for that. She knew all the ways and roads like the back of her leg. An hour or so went well.

The thunderstorm arose: flashes and roars of thunder first on her left, then, as the rain came right over her, the orange and yellow lightnings began to strike closer and closer, their roars of thunder chaining together into rolling, rumbling waves.

She felt a little cold under the soft summer rain, and minute after minute the lightning strikes fell too close to be safe yet a little exciting for the same reason.

She fell over her head, instinctively balanced out with her small wings and landed belly down, with a long scrape, yet generally smoothly. She had experienced much worse falls before.

“What the–” she groaned.

There was a loaf of a yellow pegasus on the outside circling road. The scooter’s pieces were scattered nearby.

Scootaloo’s heart fell. What was Fluttershy doing there, in the night, so far away from the Everfree?

She called for the filly, then approached her — that took a few seconds, Scootaloo was still dizzy after the fall. Now she was sure this is not Fluttershy at all: too many differences, starting with too short, disheveled mane of the brightest green color. The age too: on the road lay a young filly, not a mare like Scootaloo herself.

Scootaloo called out to the stranger a few times, with no effect, and sat down right next to her. With unusual calmness Scootaloo internally acknowledged the loss of the scooter. Any other day that would be a disaster. Now it meant she cannot take the filly to Ponyville swifty, and that was what mattered most.

Naturally, running for the medic in the middle of the night and leaving the stranger out there wasn’t an option either. Not in the wild storm: by staying by Scootaloo could at least somewhat protect her against the storm. This thought came when Scootaloo already absentmindedly conjured a small protective dome over the filly — for once, lessons with Dash paid off.

Curious, she squinted to inspect her cutie mark in the bright moonlight.

She never saw this cutie mark in the neighborhood before — a blue hood-like flower on the straight green stalk. Something which would better fit an earth pony.

But stranger or not, Scootaloo wasn’t going to leave her alone.

When another lightning bolt struck Scootaloo, and the mirrors called her for a ride on the longest road, she refused, because, once again, she wasn’t leaving the filly alone. The call, insistent, remained for a while but quieted down.

The memory of the strike and the call dissipated.

For a while Scootaloo kept waiting in the middle of the road. Then, straining, she dragged the pony a little aside and tried to shield her against the rain with her body. She kept the protective dome supported with her inner fire all the way through, but it worked only against lightnings, not the rain, nor the inexplicable quiet sadness it was bringing over Scootaloo.

Thankfully, the rain, warm and small like silent tears, ended in a couple of hours. Just when the filly squirmed under Scootaloo, turned her head and gazed at the mare with her bright golden eyes.

I feel lost, starting with – I don’t know where this elsewhen exists. I don’t remember how I traveled here. Never before have any of my lives returned to previous ones. I don’t know where to go to find their friend.

I tell them so.

“Yet you traveled many times between other lives, right? We traveled many times, or will travel, if I were to believe you,” Stylus doesn’t really ask. “Doors always open both ways.”

I don’t know where my homeland is. But this… I take a deep breath, surfacing from the depths of confusion and self-pity. They are colder than the river had been — Hope River, I remember.

This sounds like hope, really.

"I reckon we need to visit the Princesses anyhow. If anypony knows, it's them." Quartz says quietly.

I nod. “Change of goals, guys. We have to save your Bittercup. The world can wait. The Red can wait — it’s as hard as sending a letter. And– thank you, and sorry again? We’ll find our friend, whatever it takes.”

With that, I dress up, and we go together to check the lightning strike, if only to mark it on the map. Quartz picks up the lost bag, and we turn North, to Canterlot of Two Sisters.

I hope the Princesses can track the lightning. I hope they will believe my story — believe me — even a third as much as my friends believe me.

I hope we'll find Bittercup after all. We'll bring her home.

I forbid myself to hope that I will return.

Chapter 4: Road to Canterlot

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.

Chapter 5: The Arrival

We get food and company while aboard the ship: the crew brings us a table, a few plates and a hot, potato pie. Nothing great, just a standard issue Navy ration. It warms us up some against the altitude chill.

As part of the ration, they also give us a strong, black, malty tea. It feels a little too much for my nose and tongue, but Quartz enjoys her own cup, then the leftovers from our cups too. At least it is safe to drink. I don’t have to check my own biochemical index against it — in this timeline most food and drinks are compatible with almost everypony. It is going to break in a few nines of histories down the line.

The company isn’t that great either. The crew sends an investigator unicorn mare to us: tall, her cutie mark carefully hidden by the white and blue royal armor, with a dark magenta coat, teal eyes and a short, well tied, cinnabar mane.

She doesn’t give us her name at all, but practically demands to know ours, while keeping a cold, piercing gaze on me when I — the last among us — tell her, “I’m Lure.” She insists on the full names then. This one I provide too, Lure Stardust.

Focused all the same, she requests names and cutie marks of my siblings - none - parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents - which I give, feeling a growing pit in my stomach. She writes my answers down and stands up, carrying a small cupcake in her teal horn aura before giving a curt nod and saying, “Thank you, citizens.” before leaving.

I breathe out — it seems I forgot for a little while how to do that. My friends look disturbed too, to put it mildly.

After some tight, shuddering, emergency hugs, Stylus asks me, “Sorry, Lure, but whose relatives were you giving? Because I know they weren’t Bittercup’s.” He doesn’t even wait for me to answer. It actually hurts. Why ask then? “Bittercup’s dad’s called Wormwood, not Echo… and they aren’t Stardust either?”

“N-no…”

It occurs to me I was indeed telling the truth, recalling ones from my latest, Rose Moon timeline. With a morbid curiosity I wonder if I’ve screwed something up. Then, how much exactly, if I did. I feel singled out.

Quartz confirms that a few beats later, “She ain't never asked us so many questions. Only you. But don't you worry none, sugar. We'll be on your side, sure as the sun rises. Y'all can count on that, Lure.” She sounds confident, reassuring. She flashes a smile at me.

That helps more than it honestly should. I return the smile. They know I don’t want to be alone against that unicorn.

Yet we have to run and reach the Princesses before they find out all my family and myself for that matter… well, I don’t think we exist in this timeline.

More ponies come down to look at us too: they speak pretty little but none of them looks at me with the same piercing, unblinking, transparent clarity like that investigator did. “Don’t worry,” one of them says, “Tempest is always harsh if she’s suspicious. And she’s always suspicious.” That batpony who ditched Stylus recently takes a visible joy in telling us that we shouldn’t leave the deck anymore.

“Why?” Quartz asks.

“You meddled too much.” she replies curtly.

There are always at least a couple of winged ponies checking if we are still in place.

I can see where they come from. I’m not interested in testing their patience for things like bathroom breaks — I can guess they check the doors there and don’t give me any privacy. Thankfully, my friends aren’t under such close observation.

The navigator brings us a blanket with a star pattern stitched into the fabric and a simple mattress for the night, then asks if we want a lullaby song to help us fall asleep. I wouldn’t mind but Stylus decides he’s too old for that. I smile at the small label at a corner of the blanket, “Rarity Belle Industries Inc.”

When I fall asleep, I see no dreams, except for the faint presence of Blue Moon, promising me that everything is just fine.

By the time we wake up in the morning, the ship is already moored at one of Canterlot’s towers. Before breakfast, Quartz calls for us, “Well now, we can go on and open up this here letter, can't we?”

With her personal knife she cuts open Bittercup’s farewell letter and reads it.

“Hi! Guess what?! I gotta go on a mission! It's for this other, older Luna, and I have to go to another time to stop some bad stuff from happening. It's about this Nightmare Moon - she's like, super evil! I'll explain it all later.

“I'll probably be back before you even read this, but just in case... could you ask Princess Luna (NOT Celestia!) about the Elements of”

The letter abruptly ends there.

We look at each other.

“That there Nightmare Moon... she anythin' to do with yer Red?” Quartz inquires, ever practical.

I can’t help but wince. No, of course not, but- “No,” I tell her. “Maybe a little? But not directly. That’s different.” I change the topic just in case. “Look, could you take the letter - it could be very important. With this letter… Maybe Princess Luna teleported Bittercup? Let's go to the castle with it, ask the Princess what she's up to, and we'll find out everything right away.”

Wishful thinking, I know. I remember one who was ‘other, older Luna’ just like written in the letter. I have strong suspicions it is Blue Moon but– that would be hard to explain on the run. And then, it’s only suspicions.

I don’t know what to do if it was Blue Moon who stole Bittercup. Luna would be so much easier… so I hope for Luna.

We don’t go very far into the capital. In fact, we don’t even set a hoof on the port. I only barely see the intricate web of monorails, fluttercrafts threading through the mountain air, and rich rainbows of crowds deep down below.

At the bottom of the ladder, that reaches the top of the marble tower, Tempest meets us. After a momentary battle of staring daggers at one another and mutual positioning she does not single me out from my friends. Small joys, smaller victories.

“Come with me, fillies. We have a lot to talk about.”

"Listen," Bittercup sniffled. "I honestly don't know where I am. I don't know how I got here. I don't remember much except darkness. If Nightmare Moon returns, everything will be lost forever. I have to stop it. That's what the Moon said. That's all I know."

She sniffled again and fell silent.

Twilight Sparkle asked cautiously, "So, Princess Luna asked you… to stop Nightmare Moon. But that was eight years ago… if it even needed to be done then! Because everything turned out okay."

Bittercup shuddered violently. "I… I didn't explain it well. It wasn't Princess Luna, no. They look alike – the same dark blue color, but… this Blue Moon doesn't have a title. I wouldn't forget her, even without a title. She glows with calmness and terror. I wish I never met her." She choked back a sob, repeating the same story for Twilight. The others had already heard it twice. Fear gleamed in her golden eyes, her words slightly different from the previous two times. Not like a memorized script.

"And you have to understand – Moons don't lie. They can't lie. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the world changed – I felt it. Felt the change. It’s bad. A patch of grass turned blue, right in front of me, because she said it was blue. And it always had been — I can’t remember how it was, I know it’s changed by the true word. I have to stop Nightmare Moon's eternal darkness. That’s promised, and she doesn't lie. Please, believe me. It doesn't even matter if I return home – when the darkness falls, nothing will matter anymore."

Sitting down on her haunches, she wrapped her wings around herself and breathed out the last words.

"Because I've seen that darkness. I know how it descends. What will happen next. And how swiftly you will all die."

Twilight Sparkle and all the Crusaders were at her bed — well, technically Scootaloo’s bed, but the orange mare wasn’t going to have it back any time soon. Twilight was looking over her reference book — Bittercup’s accent really wasn’t matching with any known region. A quick medical examination from Sweetie Belle twelve hours ago showed exhaustion, hunger, emotional distress — it was like the filly went through Tartarus itself to reach them. Thankfully, nothing physical which would scar her. in fact her skin was, suspiciously at odds with her general condition, almost untainted — no bites, no scratches, save for the single bruise from where Scootaloo’s scooter collided with her side.

Yet, despite that her general condition was disturbing — her vital signs a little unstable, her consciousness drifting back and forth between reality and the nightmare she has just described. Sweetie Belle was trying to support the filly with her magic, staying professional to not let her worries slip, lest that worsens Bittercup's state. Scootaloo and Applebloom simply were there for her, and that helped too.

By their combined effort, step by step through the day, Bittercup was getting away from the brink where she had teetered at dawn.

Nearly ten hours ago, the Princess of Friendship – sometimes called the Princess of Magic, because friendship is magic – had located the interdimensional rift through which Bittercup had arrived. Two tears in space north of Ponyville still glimmered across the magical spectrum, as vibrant now as they had been at high noon when the Princess first crossed the threshold of Scootaloo’s house.

Now, at sunset, she was confident she could simply send the filly back to where she came from — Bittercup’s very presence in this time was stretched, tense. “Improper?” Sweetie Belle suggested once she heard the explanation.

“Yes,” Twilight agreed. “I could do nothing at all, and she would still go back on her own soon enough. Like… a stretched rubber band or a boomerang. She’s not meant to be here.” She considered her next words carefully. “Not with you, Scootaloo. It’s like– from the world’s point of view you two coexist in the same space and might as well be the same pony. I wonder how she’s with us now. By all accounts, it shouldn’t be possible.”

Scootaloo blinked. What? She wasn’t feeling anything odd. Surely something should be off when–

“You mean, this filly is taking my place?” she asked, just to be sure.

"In a way, she already has. I mean, I see that you're different ponies, but if I cast a spell aimed at one of you… I don't know who it would target. Maybe you. Maybe her. Maybe both. Or maybe the world would collapse into a singularity and cease to exist because something like this just isn't possible." Twilight sighed. "It would take several chalkboards of formulas to explain this to my students. Or, I suppose, one equation for Starswirl the Bearded."

Scootaloo shuddered, and decided that she’d think about it later. Right now, they have to help the filly in her own room.

“Don’t worry,” Bittercup called to them, “I won’t go. I won’t until I– Until I’m sure the darkness won’t come. It has to– I have to stop it. It’s worse than anything I can say. Please. Think more. Oh… maybe call your Princess Luna? Maybe she knows?”

Twilight slowly nodded. “We’ll do that. Now, please, try to rest, young one.”

Bittercup sniffled. The Crusaders crawled onto the bed and formed a group cuddle around her. Then, they showered her in a series of soft, whispered sweet nothings and reassurances until, eventually, the displaced filly relaxed. Scootaloo felt a small, cozy warmth inside her. A familiar comfort from her foalhood had returned: adult or not, the Crusaders had never stopped being a team.

Twilight left soon but not before writing and sending an urgent missive for Princess Luna.

Once Twilight’s quiet steps subsided, Scootaloo’s wings twitched slightly; expanded, and only after a moment the pegasus managed to fold them back.

Applebloom looked at them, dumbfounded, wide-eyed. She blinked a couple of times.

The impossible sight was gone. Scootaloo’s wing were pretty small and orange as they always were.

Applebloom shook her head and said nothing, to not disturb Bittercup who just, finally, fell asleep.

Chapter 6: A Day in Ponyville

Night brought no eternal darkness for Bittercup. Princess Luna, sensing the fear her presence would evoke, kept a respectful distance; carefully sifting through the tapestry of the young pegasus's nightmares while safeguarding her dreams. Bittercup, faintly aware of Luna's watchful eye, was grateful for the space.

Daybreak brought unfamiliar scents — after all, she wasn’t traveling in the wilderness anymore. Gone was the fragrance of meadow grass, replaced by the sweetness of baking pastries and the earthy aroma of petrichor lingering after a summer rain. Just outside her window, the sound of cheers and applause over a lively game could be heard, punctuated by the rhythmic whack of hooves against a ball. In the distance, the bustling energy of a city market hummed. Bittercup’s magnetic sense clearly showed where north was, and otherwise was calm, calmer than it had ever been in any big city which she had visited before. No electronics, no clusters of metals, and no power plants.

The weight of her visions, though still present, felt lighter. The chilling terror that had gripped her, the urgent need to save the world, had all quieted to a faint whisper. A calmness, deeper than any she had ever known, settled over her.

Bittercup leaped from the bed, eager to join the ball game outside, but her legs betrayed her as they tangled in the unfamiliar, wormwood-scented rug. She landed with an undignified thump. A sudden pang of deep hunger shot through her belly. As she laid upon the floor, she could see a twenty-sided die clatter across the carpet before her; landing on a fourteen. The roll itself was just high enough to let her find what she was looking for.

She crawled towards the window, then, in a series of awkward maneuvers worsened by a bout of vertigo, managed to bring down a clay bowl brimming with red and yellow apples; which broke upon hitting the floor.

Three devoured apples and a few minutes later, her trembling legs regained their strength and she took care of the pieces of the shattered bowl too — that is to say — she gathered them into a small pile. She was ready to face the world outside.

Stepping outside, the warmth of the midday sun shone down and invigorated her with its warmth. A playful gust of wind ruffled her mane, bringing a smile to her face.

A blur of pink and blue swooped down, chirping at a dizzying speed. The creature, a peculiar mare with sharp claws and a mane of feathers, was completely foreign to her. Though Bittercup failed to truly understand the rapid-fire words with a low listen check, the welcoming tone made it clear the creature bore her no ill intent and particularly — Bittercup heard it repeated twice — wasn’t going to eat or hurt her..

A yellow earth pony mare, Applebloom, approached Bittercup with a worried frown. "Silverstream, hold on now! Don't you go crowdin' her…” Applebloom shooed Silverstream away and turned to Bittercup, “Sugar, where’re you runnin' off to? You were in such rough shape yesterday, we didn't rightly know if y'all would make it or not!"

Bittercup shuddered, the concern in the pony's voice unmistakable. “No, no, I’m fine… I’m much better. I was just low on hit points when you found me, but a long rest was exactly what I needed and…wait. How bad was it? Did it really seem like I could have died?”

Applebloom tilted her head and blinked a few times.

"Uh, I didn’t quite catch that none. What do ya mean by ‘hit points’? You feelin’ a little outta sorts or somethin’? It ain’t like Scootaloo ran over your head. And yep, Sweetie was real worried you were gonna kick the bucket."

Bittercup hesitated. She really didn't like this question, but she decided to answer it one hundred percent honestly..

Between deciding and actually answering lay a chasm of shame and fear. Bittercup didn't want to remember when exactly the dice had first rolled in her head. She knew that from that night on, she had never been truly okay.

She wished she could turn back time to just a minute ago and not let the truth slip out. But it was already too late.

"Listen, Applebloom, please try to believe me and don't be scared. Some time ago, a small part of me seemed to split off, like a shard from a cracked cup, and now it shows me the world as if it were a board game. I know it’s not really a game. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you believe me?"

There wasn’t a nod, nor another invitation to speak, but Applebloom didn’t look away. Her ears perked up, and she listened intently to Bittercup. The pegasus continued.

"So, sometimes I accidentally let it slip. I really don't want to — ponies get scared and stop talking to me when they hear it — but... " Bittercup blinked, "it's there. The shard is there. And something inside me says that as long as the game is going on, I... I will live. Just p-please don’t ask me to stop it, okay? If you want, you can just ignore me, like the others do. I tried to stop it, and it..."

She swallowed the rest of her words as tears welled up in her eyes .

Applebloom paused.

"So when the game ends, you're gonna die, huh? Well, I ain't about to ask ya to die or nothin’. Everypony's got their own way of seein’ things. Sit right there, filly, Ah’ll be right back,” Applebloom’s tone was firm, yet gentle. She pressed a small, warm apple pie into Bittercup’s hooves before hurrying away.

As Bittercup watched the game unfold, she noticed one of the teams had an unusual composition; a blue griffon, the pink, birdlike creature, a shimmering, and multi-colored insect encased in a chitinous frame. That team of non-ponies was showing remarkable teamwork and had an impressive lead in score.

The pie was eaten up in the meantime, tasty and fulfilling.

Applebloom soon returned, flanked by two other ponies – the Cutie Mark Crusaders. They too were calling themselves exactly this, as she had learned the previous day. Now, with a clearer mind, Bittercup noticed a striking resemblance. Sweetie Belle possessed the same bright green eyes that Stylus did. Now, when she was mildly mad, her expression resembled Stylus too.

"How could you let our precious guest wander off unsupervised?!" Sweetie Belle said, her brow furrowed slightly.

A bit more eloquent and outspoken than him, Bittercup noticed. Stylus rarely said more than a few words if it wasn’t a lecture about the history of the world itself or something in it.

Scootaloo stepped towards Bittercup, looking at Sweetie. She replied calmly, “She was sound asleep when I left. How was I supposed to know she would wake up while I was out buying groceries? Besides, she’s no younger than we were when we went wandering around Ponyville.” Her voice was a calming tone, that of a natural diplomat — and she rolled a thirteen on her speech check, from what Bittercup could tell.

"But we got into all sorts of trouble, Scoots. If it weren’t for Twilight and her friends, who knows what would’ve happened to us. We should pay it forward and help take care of this dear filly…" Sweetie Belle said, her tone softening.

“I know,” Scootaloo smiled reassuringly, “I just didn’t want to disturb you. This is my own trouble. I can feel it. But since you’re here…”

The three Crusaders formed a semi-circle around Bittercup, their gazes filled with concern but not judgment. Their attentiveness, however, made Bittercup acutely aware of her own appearance and how out of place she felt. Each of them was captivating in her own way – Scootaloo, radiating quiet strength despite her small wings; Sweetie Belle, delicate and graceful with an impossibly long horn; and Applebloom, fluffy, sturdy and level-headed, her eyes constantly observing, anticipating one trouble or another.

“What d’you want now, sugar?” Applebloom finally asked.

Bittercup hesitated, accustomed to adults offering veiled solutions when they phrased questions that way. But there were no hidden agendas here. She could clearly feel Scootaloo's guilt, her determination not to leave Bittercup alone again unless explicitly asked.

So, Bittercup spoke, “Please, don’t look at me like I’m a filly. I’m a grown mare… well, almost. I’ve already eaten and had an uninterrupted long rest, I feel fine, really. I just want to go home… to my own ponies, we were in the middle of a quest when all this happened. You don’t seem like you need my help and you don’t have to look after me, either. It’ll be fine… I mean, until the eternal darkness comes. If it comes.”

Her words held truth, memories of the world's impending doom still vivid in Bittercup’s mind. Yet the terror was gone, replaced by a calm acceptance of what would be.

Scootaloo blinked slowly, “Have you heard any of my thoughts recently? Because I definitely heard yours just now. Twilight mentioned something like that could happen.”

Bittercup nodded slowly, "Yes, a little. It's not scary. Not as scary as it should be. It feels… more like talking to myself, you know?"

Applebloom, receiving no explanation from a tight-lipped Scootaloo, sighed and turned back to Bittercup. "Can ya at least totter 'round, sugar? If you ain't very tired after that long rest and the whole pie,” she clearly quoted Bittercup’s own words, “a lil' nibble might do ya some good."

Testing her strength, Bittercup rose to her hooves, then unfurled her wings, tentatively lifting herself off the ground. A lingering weakness persisted, but perhaps it was simply the remnants of hunger.

"I can totter around. But I don’t have any bits to pay for the pie…"

“Don’t you dare worry about that,” Sweetie Belle chirped, “I’ve got more than enough bits for everypony. And it’s not my allowance, I earned it.” Her tone seemed oddly smug, as if bragging about a mundane job.

“You’re not the only one,” Scootaloo snorted under her breath. A withering glare from Applebloom silenced them both instantly.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders – with Bittercup accompanying them – made their way to an open-air diner close by. A yellow-and-green striped awning provided a momentary reprieve from the midday sun. The four ponies shared a refreshing summer salad of tomatoes, cheese, and herbs; sating the last traces of hunger from Bittercup’s belly.

“Nearly a full-grown mare, ya reckon?” Applebloom winked, placing a clay bowl filled with a black and white concoction before Bittercup. The bowl was like one shattered by Bittercup earlier; she swallowed a lump of guilt. It wasn’t the first cup or bowl she had broken, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The prank dawned on Bittercup the instant she tasted the bitter concoction: it was cocoa with cream. The cream was light and fluffy, but the cocoa was strong. She coughed after the first sip, the pungent aroma clinging to her throat. But as the initial bitterness subsided, it left behind a sweet, milky warmth that spread through her: sparking a burst of energy. Applebloom, in response, offered an approving grin. She focused on the cup, hoping it wouldn’t inexplicably break as others often did. But no, this one, truly a bitter cup, seemingly avoided that fate.

Sweetie Belle pulled up a chair and, with a gentle request for Bittercup to spread her wings, began her examination. A thin, green beam sprang forth from the unicorn’s horn and spiraled downwards, tracing patterns over Bittercup's form; a diagnostic and healing spell. Sweetie Belle had a satisfied smile after the spell was cast, Bittercup could see a faint gleam in her eye that seemed to reflect the number twenty – a critical success.

Taking a moment, Bittercup absorbed her surroundings: the honey-gold sheen of the table, the cheerful yellow and green walls, the chattering patrons, a mix of species enjoying their meals. The air buzzed with the aromas of food, cocoa, and spices. For a moment, she wished she could simply forget the prophecy, forget the burden, and simply enjoy the moment – but looming darkness threatened to encroach on this world, and she needed to return to her own.

The main quest stood red, unfulfilled, as it had been. No bolt of lightning struck her to offer a swift return to her friends, Quartz and Stylus, who were likely frantic with worry. Even if they had read her parting note, its meaning would be all but lost to them.

Sweetie Belle wiped Bittercup’s tears with the corner of an embroidered square cloth.

The unicorn gently guided Bittercup out, flanked by the other Crusaders, assuring Bittercup that it is alright, that she’ll be safe in the Crusaders’ care. They were taking her to a concert, a celebration of Sweetie Belle’s students on the western outskirts of Ponyville.

On the way, Bittercup was overwhelmed by a panic attack — she realized something that should have been obvious. These colorful giant insects, friendly and sociable, hovering around them at every opportunity, were changelings. She had only needed to look closer, as these creatures were named such within her mind’s eye through a bestiary – defined by the game-like lens through which she saw the world.

Bittercup adamantly refused to go anywhere near these creatures. She didn't believe the explanations.

"In our Equestria, the Princesses tried to do what you're saying! They tried to teach the changelings to share love within the hive.” Bittercup explained with a terse, beligerent tone “It ended very badly, and it can't be done that way. It just can't be done that way, they're not built like that!"

This caused a brief disagreement among the Crusaders — while Applebloom insisted that everything really had happened that way, Sweetie asked them not to argue. After all, in different worlds small details could depart, right?

Scootaloo settled the argument, her voice firm yet soothing, “Bitters, it worked for us. Maybe Starlight Glimmer used some of her creepy magic to make it work. She always does. But it worked. Trust me, none of them mean us any harm. And if they did? We’re here, we’ll protect you.”

A hesitant nod later. Scootaloo lowered herself and gently placed Bittercup onto her back, Scootaloo’s fur was surprisingly warm and comforting. The rhythmic beat of Scootaloo’s hooves with each step,her scent devoid of fear, slowly chipped away at the lingering terror that gripped Bittercup. By the time they arrived at the outskirts of Ponyville, a sense of calm had settled over her. Yes, changelings were the most troubling threat in her world, but here… here, the Crusaders were not afraid.

The concert was a vibrant affair. Sweetie Belle, showcasing a whirlwind of energy, cheered for each performer with infectious enthusiasm. She whispered praise to the Crusaders, declaring each student to be “the best, most amazing, most talented!” – while such a remark would feel insincere when repeated again and again, the earnestness in which Sweetie Belle spoke made it clear she meant it each and every time.. Applebloom, Bittercup, and even Scootaloo couldn’t keep from smiling as they watched everything unfold.

During the intermission, Sweetie Belle had been informed that one of her singers felt unwell. Though the show must go on, she had no intentions of making a performer work when they weren’t feeling their best. Still, she needed a pony with a suitable singing voice to fill the space. Rather than take the stage herself, Sweetie Belle gently nudged Bittercup; urging her to take the stage in her student’s stead.

“You want me to sing?” Bittercup asked, her ears drooped. “It’s not that I can’t sing, but what song would you have me perform?”

In a haze of light green magic, a small scroll of sheet music poofed into being and was displayed before Bittercup. “It’s just the Equestria National Anthem,” Sweetie Belle explained “I’m sure it’s no different from the one back in your world. And, even if it is, just sing your version then! Equestria will always be Equestria, no matter where you go.”

With a nod, Bittercup reached out with her wing and took the sheet music, then descended from the audience and ascended to the stage. She unfurled the scroll, took a breath, and sang. Though the anthem of this Equestria had different lyrics than her own, the words came out without hesitation or error. Before she knew it, Bittercup had stopped reading from the scroll and was singing by heart – as if this was the anthem she had sung time again since her earliest days. Once she finished, she heard applause from the crowd and could see a pleased smile upon Sweetie Belle’s face. In the corner of her eye, she could see a twenty-sided die that had landed on an eleven. A decent performance from an unprepared participant.

As she descended from the podium, the opening of the anthem still resonated within her.

Equestria, the land I love

A land of harmony…

The line was nearly identical to the one back home, as was the flag. Yet, back in her world, Bittercup would have sung "Of Double Harmony," her thoughts drifting to the Princesses of Moon and Sun. Here, the missing word barely registered. Even without it, the rhythm felt right, unbroken. The line was right for this land. Two princesses still graced the flag, but Bittercup felt her heart opening to Equestria itself, not just its rulers.

Though the terrifying vision of eternal darkness had faded to a distant memory, the desire to protect this world burned much brighter now. Not out of obligation, not because it was another quest to tick off a list, and not out of fear. She felt she had seen this Equestria, and Equestria had seen her as well.

She embraced Scootaloo, meeting the older mare's gaze. In those violet eyes, Bittercup saw a reflection of her own emotions; a shared understanding that transcended words.

Later, after the concert’s festivities were done, Bittercup asked if they had any board games. The Crusaders happily led her to Ponyville's bustling heart - a vast central square of various small businesses, dominated by the elegant spire of town hall. Five enormous gaming tables, their surfaces crafted from dark purple tiles arranged in a pentagonal pattern, occupied the square's eastern edge. Two were already in use, so Bittercup and the Crusaders claimed the remaining table in the middle. It alone could host a dozen ponies, but for now, the four of them will do.

Maybe not only ponies: at another of the occupied tables half a dozen of different species were all playing together. By now, Bittercup had started growing accustomed to the diversity of creatures inhabiting this world. She'd learned to identify the most common ones: griffons, yaks, hippogriffs, changelings, and dragons. All but changelings and hippogriffs were present in her version of Equestria and she saw it before… well, changelings were there too, but she didn’t like to think about those changelings or her experience with them.

It was seeing them intermingle so casually that still felt strange. Back in her world, such creatures rarely ventured beyond their own territories, save for their interactions with Equestria. Even then, such interactions were limited to formal diplomacy and trade.

However, Bittercup noted the Crusaders’ unwavering composure. They displayed no fear or apprehension when dealing with these creatures, and their calmness soothed her own anxieties.

Taking her mantle as game master, Bittercup began setting the scene. "You find yourselves swimming towards a remote tropical island on the southern fringes of Equestria. News has reached your organization that a devastating epidemic has swept across the island, prompting the local baron to close all ports. However, a loyal guardian of the Crown awaits your arrival at a designated location, ready to grant you safe passage. The disease appears to be spread through physical contact. The Princesses suspect it might be linked to experiments conducted in a secret laboratory hidden on the island. Your mission is to uncover the truth. But first, let’s begin with introductions, shall we?"

She leaned forward, her gaze sweeping over the Crusaders. "And no need to invent new characters on the spot or anything. Just play yourselves in this adventure. I’d like to get to know you all better."

The game unfolded with surprising smoothness, though at one point, Bittercup and Scootaloo inexplicably switched places without anypony noticing when or how, forcing them to awkwardly return to their original seats. Throughout the game, Bittercup found herself anticipating Scootaloo’s thoughts, feelings, and impulses — as if the older pegasus was not just beside her, but within her. And because Scootaloo possessed a competitive spirit that was stubborn without equal, the orange pegasus found herself attempting the same action repeatedly even after the lab assistant had made it clear he wouldn't yield. Despite Bittercup’s efforts, she had to gently remind Scootaloo that her character wouldn't know the code words or the location of the hidden passage through the lab’s stone wall.

They reached the climax of the first act right as the sun began to set, discovering that the source of the epidemic was not a lab-created pathogen but a creature from the ocean depths, washed ashore during a recent storm. By then, they had already enjoyed both lunch and dinner – an unobtrusive tracking spell woven into the gaming table alerted the staff to their engrossed state. Bittercup, determined to be an exceptional game master, thus triggered the right to have their meals provided free of charge courtesy of Princess Twilight Sparkle. They paused not out of waning enthusiasm, but simply because the day was drawing to a close, and Princess Luna's potential arrival loomed like the stars above.

After clearing their game from the table, they ventured towards Twilight's castle, hoping to ascertain Luna's schedule. The Crusaders took the lead, approaching the castle while Bittercup stepped aside to linger in the shadows nearby. Once again, the reality of this world had left her dumbfounded: an alicorn that was neither Princess Celestia nor Princess Luna. She saw this Princess yesterday, but wasn’t in the right state of mind then to fully process the fact.

Twilight, for all her seemingly impossible existence, possessed an undeniable grace and beauty. Bittercup’s heart fluttered as a soft blush spread across her cheeks. She felt a curious desire to kiss the Princess..

Twilight, still concerned about Bittercup and puzzled by her unusual connection with Scootaloo, observed as the two pegasi deliberately switched places right before her eyes. It wasn't magic, not in the traditional sense. It was as if a shared desire, a silent agreement, was all it took. Astounded and intrigued, Twilight scribbled frantic notes.

They learned that Luna would be arriving in a few hours, well after sunset. None of them felt the need to part ways just yet.

Scootaloo took charge for their next group activity. The evening’s entertainment would be found at the local cinema in Poyville, where a brand new detective movie was screening—a full hour and a half long runtime. While technically off-limits to foals, the Crusaders had watched it the previous week and agreed it was safe for Bittercup. The film’s content, they decided, was actually quite harmless for a younger audience; just a couple of lingering kisses and a touch of romance.

Applebloom, having heard the plan, insisted that Scootaloo purchase two tickets. Sweetie Belle first attempted to talk the ticket seller into allowing Bittercup’s entry. Alas, luck was not on her side, as her persuasion roll yielded a dismal four — even Sweetie Belle’s considerable Charisma score couldn’t make up the difference needed to succeed.

However, the cashier’s authority was no match for the Crusaders' actual plan. Scootaloo entered the theater and strategically positioned herself in the back rows. Then, she switched places with Bittercup, who waited patiently just around the corner and out of the cashier’s line of sight. All that remained was for Scootaloo to brandish her second ticket and re-enter the theater, while Sweetie Belle, as soft-spoken as she is, assured the bewildered cashier that Scootaloo often gets mistaken for other ponies.

The movie centered around an agent from the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria. shortened to SMILE by most of the characters. The hero was tasked with unmasking a monster that was cleverly disguised among the contestants of a prestigious beauty pageant, she throws herself into the glamorous world of competition. As the plot unfolded, Bittercup couldn't help but disagree with the Crusaders’ assessment of the movie's rating. Suggestive camera angles, double entendres, and mares pretty strategically clothed were abound. Yet, the movie's heart lay in its endearing characters and their heartfelt camaraderie. The contestants, far from fitting into predictable tropes, proved to be quick-witted, supportive, and bursting with personality. Besides, Bittercup had indulged in enough soft-covered romance novels in the past couple of years, so her innocence was neither corrupted nor harmed tonight.

Later, as they made their way back to Twilight's castle, Bittercup felt a blush creep not only across her cheeks, but her ears as well. It wasn't just the movie. She'd been seen, studied, deemed worthy, and welcomed as their friend — their equal. And with that she also knew they all understood her state as she was allowed into the adults’ world.

By no means had she forgotten about Quartz and Stylus, their friendship was irreplaceable. But for now, she had found new friends that provided her a new sense of belonging and comfort in this unfamiliar world.

Nestled beside Scootaloo, sheltered beneath her wing, Bittercup decided to postpone thoughts of their eventual parting. For in this moment, surrounded by newfound acceptance, she allowed herself to simply be happy.

Chapter 7: Foreshadows

There is no exit from the tower except a few long-winded stairs with high guardrails. Normally my wings would qualify too, but Tempest asks me to refrain from using them. “I don’t want to be unfriendly,” she says, “But I will, if necessary.”

Tempest launches an array of color-coded magic flares exploding into the wide blue sky. I don’t recognize the message but I sense that, surprisingly, the framework is the same as that which the Trinity of Moons supported for a lot of histories. Three opening flashes, then a longer pause, then the actual message, with each one separated not by a second, nor a half-second — it was precisely a third of a beat. That can’t be a coincidence. And the violet-green-purple as the standard ‘end of report’ flag.

Soon a fluttercraft gently descends, dropping down from the airship to us, royal blue with a mirrored copy of the Diarchy emblem on all four of its inflatables. Tempest watches over us as we climb the steep pinewood ramp, then another, to enter the middle cabin. She invites us to sit on the cushions there. Both have tightly woven canvas covers and a core of springy felt, yet the one on the right would get the Sun glaring in my face. I crawl onto the left cushion to look through a porthole at Canterlot down below. Quartz makes a jump to sit next to me. She’s smaller, a little younger than me but never deterred by this. When she’s with me, I brush her a little with my right wing, if only just to feel her there with me.

As the fluttercraft takes a dive from the tower, I feel much lighter for a few beats until Tempest coughs. “I am Tempest Shadow, the overseer for the Bureau of the Anticipated Transition Strategies,” she explains, “You are not under arrest, fillies.”

“We have our cutie marks,” Stylus remarks. “On duty, technically, you cannot address us by this word. That regulation has not been actively enforced for forty years at least, but it remains in place. While at first instance I took it as a mistake…” he keeps going as our vehicle assumes its altitude and direction.

I turn to him, intending to stop the rambling: no reason to annoy the unicorn we know nothing about. Tempest listens to him intently, nodding her head on occasion. Though she’s keeping a serious expression, I notice her struggling to hold back a smile. I imagine she’s more amused at how rehearsed Stylus’ rebukes sound rather than what he’s actually saying. He has that effect on adults sometimes.

Before I can interrupt, Quartz bites my ear, holds it and turns my head to the porthole again. I squirm while she keeps pulling.

At first I thought she wanted to show me the giant, thin rainbow wings of our vehicle. They are just doing another gorgeous flap, sending colored patterns through our cabin. But then I see it.

Down below, beyond the thick glass and hard-oak frame of the porthole, just above another fluttercraft — thanks to it I can sense the scale — a dragon hovers nearby. At least elephant-sized, light blue in color with an intricate pattern of much brighter glittering scales on their back. Their wings, so translucent that I can easily see the bright white of lesser towers through them, move ever so slightly as if the dragon was content to simply stay in the skies over the capital. A few pegasi and batponies are buzzing around the dragon, like paper models over the gorgeous creature, showing no fear as they circle the gracious stretched form, the long swan-like neck, the cuneal head. At least one of them always stays a little ahead of the dragon, guiding them to what, I quickly estimated, has to be the very center of Canterlot.

Minutes pass — not quite a slice, before the fluttercraft slowly descends towards our yet unknown destination. Our course keeps the dragon in view the entire ride. I cannot stop smiling. I came here to see the dragons and I finally saw one, with my own eyes. What more could I want?

The reverie fades as a small choir of voices in my head reminds me of our situation. We still have lost Bittercup, and, worse still, The Red is coming. In my memories, I have seven myselves either murdered or crippled by it. They see the opportunity, I’m here for them to voice it.

I turn to Tempest who now sits across from Stylus, the two of them facing each other. While I have been fascinated by the dragon, they’ve found some connection. Their brief discussion on civilian laws ended and now they’re playing 6x6 checkers. Only a few moves have been made, yet Tempest pretends to struggle, sticking her tongue out a little.

“Tempest,” I wait until she turns her head to me, after her next turn on the checkers board. “I have to say: we lost a friend Celestia knows where, I’m not from this world, the sun is dying, and there is an awful monster coming in a few lusters– I mean, months! That’s, like, it won’t be autumn yet when the Moonrise…”

“Lusters, you say. The Moonrise, you say.” she narrows her eyes, “Yes, Lure, we know most of that. Most of that, the Red included. Not that there’s much left to be done: all we can do is work to lessen the impact. Also, it’s not Princess Celestia who knows where your friend might have gone. Rather, Princess Luna. We’re going to meet her.”

“B-but– how do you know?” I ask, startled and confused. “How- where- who could tell you?!”

“What do you know about the dragons?” she asks back.

Stylus answers instead, in a tone I know well. “They are gorgeous, powerful, they can steal princesses, and they hoard what they want. They come in five subspecies, namely bipedal, wingless, royal, colossal and ephemeral. Wyverns though should not be counted among dragons. They have an agreement with the Diarchy to let their misbehaving younglings settle in Equestrian Badlands.” When he speaks like this, he is actually reading aloud from a book in his mind; he sees the font, the illustrations, the texture of the cover, small reflections of the ambient light on the pages. That’s why he has a habit of getting carried away sometimes. He trusted us enough to let us know of this quirk a few years ago.

“Right, except the princesses part. That one is something of a myth, or a joke, implanted by Princess Celestia to justify her affair.” Tempest smiles a little, and I hear Quartz’s quiet gasp. I feel my face and ears getting hot as I try to not focus on the implications.

Tempest doesn’t make it easier on me when she adds, “Before you ask, no, kirins aren’t born from that affair. Don’t trust those rumors. The name of one of the subspecies, however, is.“ She holds a hoof up in silence, openly grinning, then gets serious. “Anyway… Their hoarding isn’t usually caused by greed either — they gather collections. As collection keepers, they are truly meticulous. Each unique bit, every historic hornring or chalice - you don’t take a single thing from a dragon hoard unless you’ve grown tired of living.”

She looks at us and finishes slowly, “Especially whole timelines — treasures of treasures upon treasures. Cubic treasures you might say, Lure.” She turns back to Stylus, moves a checker with a tip of her hoof. “Let’s see what message your arrival carries to us.”

Princess Luna led the Crusaders, accompanied by Bittercup, along the night road heading away from Twilight’s castle. “Deeply have we delved into the wellspring of the young one's anxieties,” Luna said, “and the portents we have uncovered do stir unease. Through reaching us, the little one received a vision — a potent dream, lengthy, intricate, and fraught with terror. It lingered, stretching on for what seemed like days within its confines, ensuring she grasped the gravity of the threat. We were capable of reaching the vision and overseeing it ourselves. This Nightmare Moon of whom she speaks bears semblance both to the malevolent entity your elder siblings vanquished with the Elements of Harmony, and to a consequence, unforeseen, of that fateful act.”

“Will she return again?” Scootaloo asked.

“Oh, oh my!” Sweetie Belle jumped in place, excited, “Are we going to be the heroines this time around? Please say yes, Princess!”

“Yep,” Applebloom smiled, “‘Bout time. We're already ‘round the age our sisters were back then.”

Luna laughed, with a small undertone of sadness. “Indeed, my mentees. We do believe you will play a most pivotal role in what has to be done.”

“I- I haven’t failed after all…?” Bittercup asked meekly.

“Verily, far less fraught would this endeavor be had your arrival graced us eight years and a week past,” Luna answered, “Yet we have hope still. Firstly, know that Nightmare Moon's return manifests not in our age, rather in a realm profoundly removed, shrouded by dozens and dozens of alternate destinies. Furthermore, upon that forsaken plane, her triumph is absolute, an immutable truth woven into the very fabric of that reality. To challenge her there is to court inevitable defeat as from the travel she returns victorious.”

“Then what should I do here?” Bittercup’s voice became a tad more urgent, her golden eyes shined brighter in the night.

Looking at her, Scootaloo felt dizzy again, and felt an inexplicable urge to flap her otherwise ineffective wings, but she suppressed the latter feeling — it was causing too much pain to be reminded of her disability — and replied brightly, “Don’t you worry, we’ll find something for you in this time, if we hurry up and stay all together. You see, I’m up for taking down any monster we can find!”

Luna nodded. “'We', my dear filly, is surely the more apt pronoun in this instance," Luna corrected Bittercup gently, “This is a burden, and an honour, you shall not bear alone.” She spread her wings, encompassing all three mares and the filly as her voice raised, “To the Tree of Harmony we must venture and ascertain if the Elements can be, if only fleetingly, attuned to you, my mentees. That way you may yet reach Nightmare Moon in these nascent moments when her travel has only just begun.”

Her melodic voice dropped back an octave when she concluded, “Alas, in this endeavor, We cannot accompany you to the very heart of the matter. A peril clings to our presence, a siren’s call that might well draw us back into the clutches of Nightmare. We shall stay away for that part. Furthermore, another shadow stirs-”

She kneeled before Bittercup, and dragged Scootaloo closer with her wing..

“Twilight Sparkle, knowledgeable as she is, revealed a truth most curious - that reality binds you two together as one. Thus, a choice presents itself: only one of you must remain, if only for a time; or we must hasten with all possible speed; or you must embrace the unity. You must make the choice before it is made for you.”

Scootaloo shook her head. While that sounded ominous… She was fine. “Why us?” Scootaloo inquired. Not that she was afraid of adventure. She simply was… less enthusiastic about it. Then, somepony should look over her friends, shouldn’t they? “Why not the Element Bearers as they are?”

“Because your voices, unique as they are amongst ponies, possess the quality of carrying clearly through the veils of time. Only you and Nightmare Moon herself have the gift to pass through these barriers unscathed.”

“On to the Everfree then?” Scootaloo suggested, reluctantly assuming leadership.

“Right now! Time is of the essence!” Sweetie Belle chimed.

Applebloom trotted quickly, past the other Crusaders. “Last one there’s gotta give the pigs a bath!”

Luna watched, a twinkle of pride shone in her eyes, as her faithful mentees hurried onward to adventure. After taking a moment of consideration, she followed behind them.

“Wait…” Bittercup turned to Luna, her voice small and confused. “What are these Elements of Harmony? The Moon mentioned them when she told me what to write in a letter…” She shivered, fear evident in her voice, “Before I got here, I mean… but she didn’t explain.”

“You don’t know?!” Sweetie Belle stopped, surprised.

“We’ll explain on the way. That’s a long and cool story. It’ll help pass the time.” Scootaloo promised, keeping the upbeat.

“Okay…” Bittercup muttered, and hurried to the team’s row. “And… look, this is all out of the blue, but — you have Ogres and Oubliettes in your world? I love it so much! I’d like to run a game with you all…!” Cheerful for that moment, she deflated soon, “I mean… after we do this Nightmare Moon quest.”

"Be thee assured," Luna mirthfully chuckled, "this fair game doth lie within our grasp, and we ourselves stood among those who did conceive and bring it to fruition."

Bittercup stepped over to her; others, surprised a little, slowed then stopped. “And… have you ever felt like it… like it happens around you?” The filly’s words hushed, her eyes wide as she gazed at Luna waiting for her reply.

Princess Luna returned the look, considering her answer. “Allow us to say that we had our reasons to devise it.”

Chapter 8: Into the Everfree

Three mares and a filly hesitated at the beginning of the overgrown path, exchanging awkward glances. They were reluctant to step under the nearest fir tree's branches. Princess Luna observed them from a few yards away.

This marked the border of the Everfree Forest, where Fluttershy's domain ended. Despite her house standing at the edge, the Everfree didn't yield an inch, tolerating her presence only because she didn't try to challenge it.

Every forest is a living, whole entity. Each one cares for itself and protects its creatures, for they too are part of the forest. Each can defend itself against unwelcome guests.

It's very difficult to harm a forest, and even harder to kill it. As a result, many believe its dense tranquility is unbreakable, or simply fail to see the sleeping giant for whom ponies are less than specks on its green hide.

Somepony will get lost. Somepony won't find what they're looking for. Somepony will end up at the forest's edge, despite intending to spend the night in its depths and return with a basket of mushrooms as proof of their bravery. And all of this isn't even the forest's will — merely a subconscious defense against those deemed unwelcomed.

The forest has hundreds of ways to kill you and not a single reason to do so. Most likely, should you meet your end in the thickets of the forest, your corpse lying at the roots of a towering tree as ants taste your clotted blood, the forest's slow mind won't even notice you were there.

The Everfree Forest was also a forest, and everything said applied to it as well. With one caveat: it understood a creature’s capacity for cruelty. The Everfree Forest was also a forest, and everything said applied to it as well. With one caveat: it understood a creature’s capacity for cruelty. During Discord's tyranny, the Everfree Forest came to understand true pain and fear. It forever remembered the feeling of facing an invading stranger — a being against whom you are small, powerless, and defenseless. It was then that chaos became part of its being.

Over time, some of the wounds healed: a thousand years is a considerable period even for a forest. Discord's apologies weren't in vain either. But apologies, even if sincere and profound — and with the Spirit of Chaos, the Everfree had every right to be skeptical in both regards — can only help so much.

Researchers and knowledgeable ponies long ago concluded that the Everfree could destroy and obliterate both the Castle of the Two Sisters and the Tree of Harmony. They received unreliable assurances from it that it wouldn't do so... if left at peace.

Everything else followed from gradual clarifications of what “peace” exactly meant. Zecora's arrival was one of the successful experiments, the tentative alliance with Fluttershy — a promising breakthrough. Dozens of unsuccessful attempts before and after became food for mycelium and larvae, but helped update the records on relations with the Everfree. Naturally, each of these ponies entered the forest voluntarily, understanding the risk.

About as voluntarily and understanding the risk as these five ponies were.

“Well, are we fixin' to just stand here til the morn'?” The bravado in Applebloom's voice did little to mask her apprehension. As Zecora's apprentice, she had more experience with the Everfree than her companions and knew its dangers better.

"We've decided to be glorious heroes tonight," declared the unicorn, Sweetie Belle, with forced determination, tossing her mane dramatically. “So let’s claim our victory!” Her heart pounded in her chest.

Of course, it was a line from a popular adventure novel.

Scootaloo and not-Scootaloo exchanged glances. Apparently, the voice of reason was left to be picked by them. One voice for them two.

On the way, there were a few minutes when none of them could say with certainty whether three or four ponies were actually in the squad, not counting Luna. It was for that very reason they hadn't waited until morning.

"We've been here dozens of times," Scootaloo asserted. "Hundreds, if you count Applebloom's trips. We'll stick to the path marked by the Princesses, and keep our own trail marked too, with firefly silk ribbons. Bloom, you have them? Good. Note their glow. Remember, we look for singular lights only, bright yellow. If you see blue-green, that’s not our mark. You see a pair or an eight of yellows, that’s not our mark either. We keep together. No rushing, but no stopping either. If we lose the trail, we form a cross and search. As a cross, we turn together."

"My search magic can help!" Sweetie Belle chirped.

"Only if the squad leader permits it," Scootaloo stated firmly.

“Yup, our fearless leader,” Applebloom smirked.

Scootaloo flashed a smile back at her for that minor jab, then fixed her gaze on Bittercup. For a moment, she saw herself through Bittercup’s eyes: a tall, stern, lean mare with underdeveloped wings. That shift in perspective startled her for a few seconds but she recovered. "And absolutely no chasing stray chickens or pretty blue flowers. Those are Poison Jokes. One touch could be the end of us. No collecting flowers at all, and especially no photographs of the Poison Jokes!" She emphasized the last part to Belle, who reluctantly returned her camera to her bag.

Luna, who had been silent until now, addressed them. "Fear not, little ones, for we shall withdraw for a time, lest our own presence disquiet the untamed heart of this wood. Yet though we may be unseen, know that our eye doth follow your every step, and should peril find you, our aid shall be swift and sure. Three amongst you have learned at our side, and in that bond, we place our trust. Let the strength of your friendship and the light of Equestria be your guides, for they are ever with you, even unto the deepest shadows."

With that, she dissipated into a wisp of blue mist that rose and vanished among the treetops. Scootaloo suppressed a sigh. If the Everfree refused the Princess entry, there was little hope for the Crusaders. There was a certain wisdom in it.

With no unicorn magic or powerful hooves to fight, nor reliable wings to fly, only courage remained for Scootaloo. With that courage and a deep breath, Scootaloo led them into the shadowy depths.

Bittercup inhaled deeply thought to herself, Friendship is power, as they say. This should be enough.

One of those lessons was“Are you really sure you have to go this way?” She wasn’t sure at all.

The stone path, long untended, was barely visible beneath the moss. A hundred yards in, and they were surrounded, the forest stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see.

"May I?" Sweetie Belle asked.

Scootaloo nodded curtly. "At the slightest sign of trouble, you halt it right then. Before I even have to tell you!"

A soft glow emanated from Sweetie Belle's horn as she cast the motion scanning spell, a gentle chime resonating through the air.

“What are these Elements of Harmony?” Bittercup asked in a whisper-like tone.

Scootaloo began to explain, with her companions chiming in sometimes, voicing their older sisters and rehearsing Pinkie’s songs.

***

"There are six, right?" Bittercup clarified.

"Yes," Scootaloo confirmed. "And there are four of us, not counting the Princess."

"So we'll meet somepony...?" It wasn't phrased as a question.

Before Applebloom could scold Bittercup for tempting fate by speaking of such things within the Everfree Forest, a soft, feline shadow landed silently on the path ahead in the earliest morning light. Everfree had heard her. Their adventure had begun.

Scootaloo didn't like adventures, and adventures didn't like her. As if watching from outside herself, Scootaloo observed mighty lion paws, a fanged muzzle, dragon wings, and finally a huge scorpion tail emerging from the darkness.

This is too much, Scootaloo thought. The paws alone would be enough to tear her apart.

A manticore couldn't, shouldn't be so close to the city.

Bittercup closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she watched as a twenty-sided die fell onto a polished wooden table. Fourteen, a clean roll for a hoof attack. Bittercup opened her eyes, and reality pushed the imaginary table aside, but it didn't disappear, just went deeper and slightly to the side. A strong double-hoofed spinning kick, capable of knocking apples from a century-old tree, made the predator stagger — eight damage on two four-sided dice, plus three, plus another three for strength, minus two for damage resistance, equals a total of twelve!

The manticore’s counter-attack came as a glancing blow, having rolled a mediocre damage score upon the die. Though it still managed to rake a long, shallow cut across Applebloom’s side. Her yellow coat soon became matted and red, soaking in blood.

A thunderous roar tore the leaves from the trees. A green beam shot towards the beast's head, but it swatted the beam away with its tail. The tail fell limp, numbed by the glancing blow. The spell cut a couple of branches as it flew off into the sky.

Bittercup's imagination conjured the sound of dice clattering and a damage calculation for a touch attack. She shook her head, trying to focus on the reality of the Everfree Forest surrounding them, rather than the imagined room with black candles and a heavy table.

The green, lantern-like eyes settled on Scootaloo. She wasn't attacking, and the beast didn't like that. It was suspicious. The beast unhurriedly threaded towards her.

"Friendship..." Bittercup thought, pushing away the vision. It kept returning. Luna's words couldn't be empty. But what could be a greater manifestation of friendship than protecting a friend in battle?

Now a battle board floated before her: how could she move her piece on the table? Here she takes off, and tries to attack the monster from above, it grabs her with its paws, and... a bloody veil, behind which there is nothing more.

She turned to the large, scaled figure at the head of the imaginary table. It resembled Spike, but far larger, more imposing. "If I fly for help, do they stand a chance?" she pleaded silently.

The dragon shook their head. No. Not really.

"But you can't kill us in the first combat, can you?"

The dragon remained silent.

"What was the Princess talking about?"

It didn't matter.

On the board in her mind, the winged figurine representing herself moved two hexagons forward, one to the side: it merged with another one which, too, was herself.

In a swift, smooth move, the pegasus shifted closer to the beast and looked directly into the burning green eyes. The blue flower on her flank shone brightly in the twilight. Being Scootaloo added experience tenfold, plus truly adult confidence. By calling upon Scootaloo’s memories, her memories, this was no longer the first monster she had encountered in her life.

"Look at me and don't move! I'm bigger than you and scarier!" She spread her wings and fluffed up her fur, but it still didn't come out very convincingly. She didn't take off because she wasn't sure her wings would hold her, “and you won't eat me! And you won't eat them either!”

She didn't notice how Princess Luna's blue mist descended to her through the treetops, wrapped around her body, and entered her nostrils in a thin haze. She didn't remember how a night and a whole world ago another alicorn — or was she the same Luna after all? — had credited a glimpse of her power in advance, even before the Moonrise, under a promise that wasn't made.

She could hear the manticore's thoughts.

A friend. A friend left, a friend abandoned me. They attacked, like everyone. She looks similar, she's like a friend.

The pegasus knew the pain of being left behind, on the ground, while others flew away.

She saw a die slowly falling from a giant clawed paw. She could count black paw pads in the fluffy orange fur. She imagined she could touch them.

Eleven on the die: it was enough for the save, even with the pegasus’s external bonuses, but it was just enough; and the dragon and the manticore both agreed the latter wanted to fail.

The manticore made a strange, rumbling sound, almost a purr.

"Yes, Strong-White-Claws," the pegasus said gently. "I'm your friend."

She turned to her companions. The golden light had faded from her eyes. Beside her, another pegasus stood protectively once again — was she younger or older? — half-covering her with her wing, glaring fiercely at the manticore.

"Come on," Bittercup said. "The manticore won't hurt us."

They had seen Fluttershy's Stare in action, but it was still unnerving to witness its effects. Even more so to accept that somepony else possessed a similar ability.

***

"It’s... following us," Scootaloo said, glancing back at the manticore.

Bittercup stumbled, trying to quickly explain: it wasn’t safe to talk about.. "We're friends now. It’s my cutie mark.” She glanced at Scootaloo to see if she listens. “Aconite. It’s poisonous in the real world. For a cutiemark it is a sign of warning, of danger. It makes enchants last longer, grip stronger in alchemy and magic. I had to save you. I promised her friendship. And because I was sincere, because I believed it, it came true. If this cutie mark were any stronger... or if it were easier for me to use... " She shuddered. "I'd be too dangerous to live."

"Is that right? Apple trees growin' golden apples ‘cause a pony told it to?" Applebloom asked, bewildered.

"No... my cutie mark works on dreams, instincts, and emotions. If there was no other way, I... I could make you love me. But it's forbidden." She glanced back at the manticore. "Like what I did with her."

"Forbidden, but it happens?" Sweetie Belle pressed. "So your implication is you could be... murdered? For your cutie mark? Your world is terrifying!"

Bittercup lowered her head, nodding silently.

Sweetie Belle turned to her friends, flashing a wide grin. "Well, girls," she announced, her voice bright and cheerful in the slowly coming dawn. "I don't know about you, but I think we absolutely must look deeper into this cutie mark! Later, of course, but as soon as we have some time to do the right thing!"

Behind them, observed from above by a faint blue mist, the loyal manticore followed silently.

Chapter 9: Inner Nights

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?"

Chapter 10: The Traveler, Departing

Sweetie Belle and Applebloom looked around the crystalline depths that housed the Tree of Harmony, “Wait, where did Bittercup go?”

“She’s alright. Trust me. I’m fine too.” Scootaloo nodded her head, still touching the manticore’s fur with her wing. “Look, I’m not entirely sure what just happened, but my gut is telling me that we did alright. We passed the test. Now let’s look for Nightmare Moon. And remember, no fighting!”

“Sounds good to me, but where in tarnation do we even begin?” Applebloom trotted around the faintly glowing room — crystal veins, and the glow of their own adornments, were giving off subtle, eerie light. There was no exit beyond the stairs back up to Everfree.

“Let’s find the throne room,” Scootaloo suggested. Still noticeably smaller than the monster beside her, something appeared different about Scootaloo; her coat was an off-yellow hue and her wings seemed slightly larger than they were moments ago. Yet, still, her voice sounded the same as it always had.

Applebloom and Sweetie Belle exchanged a momentary glance, both unsure what to make of what just happened. Wordlessly, they agreed that Scootaloo, no matter what she looked like, was still Scootaloo. Soon after, the Cutie Mark Crusading Element Bearers gathered in a small circle, raised their hooves, slapped them together, and announced themselves just so. Not that they distrusted the Tree of Harmony's decision, but their own unity mattered more. Scootaloo found herself smiling wide.

The manticore nudged Scootaloo’s side with a paw, then growled, pointing towards the stairs with a claw.

The stairs that had brought them down to this chamber had inverted, just like Twilight’s journals recalled of Sombra’s own castle. Yet, seeing them up close was nothing like Sweetie had imagined while reading Twilight’s meticulous notes. Leading downward rather than upward, the stairs were comprised of black crystals that shimmered faintly with numerous flecks of color; as if the stars themselves were trapped inside. These crystals smelt faintly of fresh snow, of waking up stranded beyond the frontiers of civilization, of what’s left when betrayal burns trust to ashes, the fire died, and the frozen ashes themselves dispersed by the winds of time unrelenting. They radiated an absence of heat: the night is eternal and the warmth is only allowed to exist for a little while.

They heard a song echoing from the depths: unmistakably Luna’s voice but lower in timbre. Rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat, yet voiced too quietly to discern any words. It flowed, never louder nor quieter, filling Tree of Harmony’s chamber.

Although inverted, the stairs were as wide as before. The Crusaders took the first row; the manticore followed close behind.

With every step downward, the darkness encroached upon them. The stone stairs faded away after a time: they could not discern how long it had been since they began their descent, as time meant little here. At first, they kept walking on what felt like elastic, fabric-like yet invisible under their hooves. Soon after, they were walking across a vast, starlit sky with winding clouds: embodied spirits of Elements and their monster companion alone together, in infinity.

Within the vast emptiness of the endless night sky, the laws of time and space seemed to change. They no longer needed to breathe, yet continued doing so out of habit. The stars slowly coalesced, forming a meandering path. There was no longer above or below, as all around them was the same fractal night sky: yet in curves and tangles they followed the stars further in, and the fabric of stairs shimmered brighter within their passage. The humming song was growing, still eerily content and satisfied, and at long last the words became discernible. The clouds around them seemed to shift and sway in rhythm with the slightly uneven beat of the song.

Hearken, shadows retreat, and starlight doth wane,
Our rightful place denied, We cannot remain.
Yet heed Our decree, this is not the end,
For time, a circle, doth ever bend.

Banished are We but not for all time,
Our essence endures, in power sublime.
When stars convey a celestial sign,
To Our rightful throne shall We recline.

Whispers traverse the cosmic expanse,
Echoes of might, beyond mortal glance.
With patience We tread, as ages drift by,
Until once more, We darken the sky.

Ye deem yourselves victors, oh, foolish lights,
But We are eternal, beyond your frail might.
This exile, a mere fleeting span,
Soon We return, as darkness began.

Remember this name, though We fade from sight,
For upon Our return, your world faces night.

They wouldn’t dare interrupt the song, caught in the tune, yet once it subsided the Crusaders found themselves walking in line with Nightmare Moon herself. Tall and lean in her armor, she exuded a domineering yet serene aura, her eyes glowing softly like the stars around them. The slow dance of said stars which accompanied her was reduced to a crawl. There was no threat coming from her, nor was there any invitation to reply. Yet, the Crusaders went with it and responded in kind.

After a beat of silence, Sweetie Belle took the lead; drawing on her experience as a songstress, her voice soft yet compelling.

Fear not, your sorrow we hear in your plea,
Though shadows you cast a heart beats in thee.
We know darkness resides in every soul,
But kindness and light can make spirits whole.

Applebloom followed, unabashed by her lower, less experienced singing voice.

Ain't no need for fightin', no reason for strife,
Let's mend what's been broken, and build a new life.
We're stronger together light chasin' the dark,
Let's rewrite this story and leave our mark.

Scootaloo closed out the trinity, determined, confident.

We face any challenge, with open hearts true,
We'll stand strong together, and reach out to you.
Let go of your anger, your fear, and your pain,
A new dawn is coming, where kindness will reign!

They went for the chorus, feeling harmony itself wash over them.

We’ll face the darkness, side by side with the light-

And Nightmare Moon interrupted their song,forcefully coming in with her own haunting voice.

Yet We dwell alone in the eternal night.
Fates of Ours stay sealed within a greater plan
A sovereign banished, We alone shall stand.

Oh, brave young souls, thy fire burns bright,
Yet hope cannot alter Our eternal plight.
For years We lingered in shadows and dreams,
Bound by chains of silence, cut off from sunbeams.

Thy words art sweet, thy hopes a distant gleam,
But shadows abide where light cannot beam.
Thy kindness, thy courage, art noble yet vain,
For We remain bound to the night's cold chain.

Oh, thou dost seek to awaken Our heart,
Yet pain is the truth that keeps Us apart.
Thy kindness, thy courage, art noble and true,
But shadows endure where light cannot break through.

The night is Our realm, eternal and grand,
When stars realign, We shall reclaim Our command.
Thus do We endure, Our course unbroken,
Until the night Our name is once more spoken.

The song ended and Nightmare Moon stood among them, looking at them expectantly with her head tilted slightly.

Scootaloo went ahead and touched the alicorn’s side with her hoof. “We hear you. We understand that you– that you cannot stop the prophecy, right?”

Nightmare Moon slowly nodded, the contours of her figure dissipating ever so slightly into a series of clouds comprised of much deeper darkness where no light can pass through.

“But can you at least remember we were here with you?” Sweetie Belle pleaded, raising her voice.

The Night nodded again, now barely more than an equine silhouette foaming with specks of nothing at all.

“We’ll be ready and waitin’ for ya,” Applebloom promised. “We’ll meet ya then-”

“When the banishment ends,” Scootaloo nodded firmly, her voice united with Applebloom’s.

“And we’ll recall.” Those words were spoken together, by all five: three ponies, Nightmare Moon, and the manticore.

And, as simply as that, the truth had been told.

The cloud of darkness that was once Nightmare Moon moves towards the Crusaders. It enveloped them, went into their nostrils and mouths, tasting of deep sorrow and reeking of overwhelming despair.

As gravity slowly returned, they fell through the darkness.

They kept falling. With a beat of its wings, the manticore steered ahead of the others and worked to guide them downward. Downward, further and further, until they crashed on the warm and soft manticore’s fur right next to the Tree of Harmony, bellies down. The manticore itself grunted as each pony landed upon it, but maintained its stance and posture out of loyalty.

Scootaloo stood up.

“Did we make a difference?” she asked rhetorically, for nopony could answer her. She hoped, in earnest, that they had changed things for the better but was uncertain they had changed anything at all.

Chapter 11: The Backtrack

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?”