YaneUra

A Stallion wakes, jerking upright, his chest heaving as he coughs, the night thick and choking around him. The bed trembles beneath him, not violently but steadily, an exhale, an inhale, a low hum threading through the air. He retches, and rubs his eyes as he glances at the glass of water on the nightstand ripples, faint concentric rings in its stillness, moonlight leaks through the curtain, the glass of water cold and a droplet races down with another. He sits, rubbing his temples and shaking his head to battle away the drowsiness of sleep, muttering curses under his breath, his hoof brushing his coarse hair, as the vibration grows deeper, a pulse now, rhythmic, alive, coming from somewhere outside the bedroom walls.

The wooden boards creak under his hooves as he rises, pulling on his boots, grabbing his coat, his breath fogging upwards, like dim rising ever fast out his mouth as he moves through the house, the cool night air pressing against his fur. The walls of the house are humming, faintly shaking, as though the structure was resisting some unseen force beyond. In the silence, a noise emerges, not a sound but a sensation, a deep, resonant thrum that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, its origin unclear but its presence undeniably there.

He steps outside, the chill biting at his face, the moon high and pale, the world cast in a muted silver of the thickness of twilight glow. The ladder leans against the shed, where it always is, its wood weathered but sturdy, the same ladder he’s used for a hundred tasks, a hundred ordinary days. But this night was not ordinary in the slightest. His gaze drifts toward the library, that dark monolith with its backdrop, the cliffs, its silhouette sharp against the sky, like a bubble, its windows faintly glowing with a golden light.

His boots crunched softly against the frost-dusted ground of frozen leaves half buried in mud, his breath shallow and quick. He reaches the library, the ladder under his hoof, trembling, not from cold, but from something buried, something nameless crawls which under his fur, like an ant racing across skin, burrowing into a speck, unease.

He places the ladder against the stone brick for support, the wood settling into the frozen dirt and mud staining the blackened bottom, its top resting against the ledge of a high window. Slowly, cautiously, he climbs, with an ashen flavor in his mouth, the wood creaking harshly beneath his weight, his breath catching in his throat as he nears heaven.

And then he sees.

The alcove, glowing, golden light spilling over rows of books, over the ancient wood and stone. And in the center of it all, them.

Celestia and Twilight, bodies entwined, their lips meet, their hooves move, their bodies press together with an intimacy that is unbearable, a unity that feels too pure, too complete, too alive.

He freezes, his breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind rebels against the sight, against the heat, the closeness, the tenderness, against the sheer rightness of it all. Disgust churns in his stomach, rising like a wretched blackest bile, hooves tightening around the rung of the ladder as his body trembles, the later shakes, as he shakes, from rage, from hatred.

He climbs down, his descent uneasy and jerky, the ladder creaking loudly. His boots hit the ground, and he turns, walking quickly, his breaths short and shallow, his hooves, the bones clenched with fury.

He rouses the others, knocking on doors, his voice loud and urgent. He tells them what he saw, what he has witnessed, his voice trembling with an outrage, his descriptions vivid and graphic, sexual and grotesque, painting the scene with words that burn and sting, words that ignite the anger of the crowd who listens.

The townsfolk gather now, their faces pale in the moonlight, their eyes wide with shock and fury. Pitchforks, torches and all, the hum grows louder, deeper, the ground beneath them rumbles with every step, through the air and through their bones. White as snow. The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks sharp to cut the dark sky in half, and as the townsfolk murmur and mutter and curse, the cliffs seem to shift, their jagged edges trembling, their forms bending, warping, moving as though alive.

And above it all, The Wheel turns.

The hum grows louder still, the great awakening, revelations, the vibrations turn violent, as the townsfolk gather their torches, voices rising with heated anger spilling from their holes, feeding the storm that brews just above the sharpest cliffs, which groan, cock and twist, their stones grinding against one another like an earthquake rips through the core, the ground townsfolk gouge upon shifting, as though the land itself is responding to their fury. The ocean rises in the distance, waves crashing against the rocks with a force that twirl the water upward in a slow movement, slowing down, united by hatred, united by fear.

The Wheel turns faster, its hum now a roar, it's gyration a blur, dancing with a waltz its presence a shadow that looms over the cliffs, over the library, over the world the shadow advances, grows like a tumor. The air thickens, the golden light fades rapidly, blot out by the clouds, hail of arrow, the dark creeps in, heavy and suffocating, as the townsfolk begin their march, their torches burning, their voices rising, their anger spilling into the night like fire, like blood, like the beginning of the end.

Discrimination