Sombraby AquilloChaptersThe StreetsThe AtticThe PlayThe StreetsIt is twenty five years before the rise of Nightmare Moon, and the streets of the Crystal Empire’s City are filled with rain. It doesn’t always rain in the empire, but when it does, it rains hard. The barriers that keep the City warm and practically temperate in the middle of the frozen north have to be lowered occasionally to allow the clouds through. Otherwise, they gather in a grey mesh round the City’s outsides and block off the sunlight, a marr on its perfection. That it lets in the wind and the snow and the slushing rain is a problem that has to be tolerated. After all, the process only lasts for one hour of each month, and the detritus and unpleasant cold are always quickly cleaned up in a show of the City’s magic. The City is always keen to show its strength. And yet every crystal has a crack, a part of it that is utterly out of place. The City’s power brings more than admiration: it brings refugees and fortune seekers, the unlucky and the luckless. For every polished crystal arch and well-maintained lock of hair, there is an alleyway darkened with rubbish and the starving stomachs of orphans. Every city has its slum, and the City is no different. It just hides its better. A grey waif hovers in the shadows, his black mane and tail melting into the background as his red eyes flash, almost disembodied as they hang inside the dark. The street in front of him looks half-melted under the water, wet and shining as the pastel shades of buildings slide in place along it like an impressionist's tortured dream. Rainwater falls upon his face, distracting him from his focus even as his eyes stare unblinking. He wets his lips, carting the water off his face on a sliver of pink tongue, blinks and then tries again. The fruit-basket still won’t move, no matter how hard he stares or wills his horn to cast. Any second now, the house’s owner could come back and close the window, ruining his only chance. He needs his magic to work for him this once, now more than ever. And yet it won't. He curses his horn and tries again, frowning now as hearsay from a thousand wayward souls throbs through his ears. Half-remembered lectures and ill-formed opinions cloud his mind as he tries to recall everything he’s ever heard about magic. You have to want it, he remembers, his eyes not leaving the basket. You have to want it more than anything. Strength overcomes all things. He frowns again, wanting the fruit, wanting the basket, pouring the whole of his six year old self into the desire. Hunger spurs him on as he leans forwards, out of the alley’s protective shade and into the wide-open space of the street proper. That it is stealing does not matter to him: he is hungry, and the other orphans have nothing for him to try and steal. Not that he would try, for the strong take from the weak, and he knows of no-one weaker than he who has food for him to take. This might be his only chance to eat for days. A small part of him fears that it might be his only chance to eat at all. He barely hears the clanking of armour until it's almost upon him, and when he does it is a loud and sudden and disturbingly close thing. He breaks out of his concentration blinking and dazed, like a stallion freed from a changeling’s trance, and then turns and pelts off into the dark and hidden confines of the City’s many twisting alleyways. He runs for what feels like hours, darting past the eyes and dens of the City’s other unwanted residents in a greyish blur of movement. Some call out for him to stop; a few do so by name. He isn’t stupid enough to listen. He carries on running, mane plastered against his neck and raggedly cropped tail slapping against his thighs like a wet, black rag. Smears of dirt run in haphazard lines over his flank and under-belly, formed from clods kicked up by his whirring, stumbling hooves. He breaks in and out of shadows cut from the night by the angled architecture of the City and piles of stinking, rubbish-made dens that fill the alleyway. Eventually – almost paradoxically to one who doesn’t know the alleys – he reaches the place where he began. His breathing is heavy, laboured; the ribs on his chest are far too visible, pushing painfully against his coat. His red eyes vanish as he blinks. He looks left and right, up and down the alleyway. A few pieces of rubbish have been removed since he was last here, as if someone had started to clear up and then realised the sheer scale of what they’d set themselves. He had been right to run when he did; the guards have been here. He takes another step out of the hidden sub-alley, peering anxiously around the corner for the guard he knows was here. He sees the open window instead, and the basket still perched inside of it. His lips crack open. His ears swivel round as he walks forwards, searching for anything other than the pitter-patter of water against stone. He hears nothing at all, and he is long since used to hearing the subtle signs that someone’s there. He can tell when something is being deliberately quiet: when an invitingly open den is nothing more than a trap. This doesn’t feel like one. He risks poking his head out into the gap between the City and the slums. Nothing. They’ve gone. He licks his lips, eyes returning to their old staring-partner. He frowns. He concentrates. The banging of an opening door startles him backwards, and he almost runs until his hunger tugs him back, overriding his caution completely. The house that holds the basket vomits two thoroughly drunk guards out onto the street, one of which is sagging as the other leans on him. A harassed mare follows them out, the shining locks of her hair slightly out of place as she shoos them away. They don’t go quickly and they don’t go quietly. The smaller of the two slumps with a groan onto the ground, stomach seeping out from underneath his armour into a bulge of white fat. The larger – the one who deposited the other onto the ground – turns and throws a smile back to the mare, a smile which hints at things the small, grey unicorn foal watching may not ever understand. That hardly matters to the foal. His eyes flick anxiously between the basket and the mare and the drunken pair of guards. He wants them all to leave. It is a funny kind of fairness – one he holds onto for the rest of his life. And then the guard sees the basket, and one base impulse overrides the other. The foal's eyes widen. That fruit is his. He is the one who has wanted it the longest, who has risked the most in trying to get it. He curses his horn and skitters about from hoof to hoof. The tears of a child grow in his eyes. Hate blossoms in his chest, strong and gnawing: hate at the City, hate at the alleyways, hate at the guards. Hate at the strong and at his own weaknesses. His horns flickers, and an answering stain gleams off the apple held in the guard’s hoof. Nopony notices, not even the foal. The guard reaches up and bites a chunk out of the apple as the mare hurls abuse at him. The stallion by his hooves mumbles groggily as he pulls himself up off the floor. A heartbeat later, the larger one flinches backwards; the mare pauses, and there is horror in her eyes as the guard collapses outside of her house, armour ringing as it strikes off the street. The other groggily looks up before he starts shouting in alarm, stumbling unsteadily to his feet and bellowing a mixture of anger and concern. The foal just watches all of it, his face shining with confusion and a dash of hope. A minute later, and the street is utterly empty, the mare having long since ran for help whilst the living guard struggled after her, a dying burden on his back. What's left is a deserted street that's wet with rain and coated with almost-hoarfrost; nopony will be coming out in this weather. Chunks of the apple are left scattered around in a red, trampled slush; the rainwater carries the smaller parts of it far away and into the gutters. Globules of spit and vomit ride along with them. The foal takes his first step out of the alley and into the city. His eyes settle on the scattered contents of the basket, and then past them to the now empty house, its still open door letting a slit of warm, yellow light spill out onto the street. He licks his lips, and walks forwards. The AtticThe foal sits near the attic's edge, the whole of the City of Light before him and a bundle of grapes dangling in his grip. He considers popping the grapes into his mouth one by one for a half-second, before shoveling the whole thing in, stem and all. His tongue wraps round one of the berries, squashing it into a chewy mush of liquid and skin. He drinks it down greedily, not even pausing for breath, and before he's even swallowed, he's started on another. The journey to where he's sitting was a different route from his usual one. He'd climbed into the forgotten rafters of the City's abandoned innards far earlier than was usual, skittering atop rooftops and along slumped-in attics in a shrouding halo of dust. He'd paused only once, when voices called from down below, but not to him. There was a family beneath him, laughing and chatting round an open fire as he'd paused up above them, bowl clenched inside his teeth and decaying crystal-rafters creaking under his hooves. They must have been a new addition to the alleyways, a new collection of refugees come to try their fortune in a rigged game. Most families broke apart quickly within the City, splintering and fracturing as hate and hunger and strength overcame the bonds. He'd watched them for a moment, the red of his eyes spilling past his irises under the flickering light of the flames, and then passed on. He pulls the chewed and empty stem from his mouth. He looks at it once, bites gingerly on it, spits and then flicks the mangled thing out over the side. The alleyways are always filled with rubbish, and he feels a small amount of pride at being able to add to it for once. He bends down, nosing inside the bowl placed next to him. He pulls an orange out, teeth digging into the upper flesh as his eyes flick round his surroundings. The attic at his back is still empty, though it's so utterly gloomed over that his certainty is little more than a guess. Still, the floor creaks whenever he steps on it; nopony else will be able to sneak up behind him without him noticing. His gaze turns round to the edge. It's a long way down, as the water trickling past him makes clear, splashing loudly as it strikes against the alley's floor. The rain itself has stopped and the shinning barrier of a deep dark-blue is back, tinged red at one edge in a simulation of the coming dawn. The water itself drips down from the roof above his head in a free-flowing waterfall that he is careful to avoid. The City itself glints before him, wet and touched in places by melting ice. Parts of it shimmer naturally, the polished crystal that the City uses to build perfectly reflecting the rays of the rising sun. And at the centre of it all is the great castle, shining like a sun ray thrust into the earth. His eyes scrunch up as they pass over it; the afterimage it leaves dances in his vision for nearly a minute. Satisfied, he bites down on the orange, spraying his face and throat with the sweet, acidic taste of it. He almost drops it in surprise, but manages to hold on, turning it round with his tongue and then lancing his teeth down into it. Another burst squirts out, and he swallows, contented. "That looks good," a voice speaks from behind him, and his jaws shudder together, slicing the orange in two. "Mind sharing?" He spins round, his back hoof sliding the crystal bowl towards the edge: it would be better that he destroyed it than if he lost it. To lose is a weakness, and he must not appear weak. He must never appear weak. The figure, however, is one he recognises, and she smiles at him as she slides the bowl back with the tip of a dusky brown wing, green eyes winking. "You should always share, Sombra." His older sister licks her lips, and one of her wings flicks a green apple into an arc that ends in a flash of yellow teeth. "Generosity beat Discord, after all; you should honour that at all times. Like, say, in the here and now." Sombra swallows, the orange sliding painfully down his throat in a half-chewed lump. "Mine," he mutters stubbornly as his sister crunches on his apple. She smiles in response, a sliver of green skin caught between her teeth. "They're mine, Umbrel. Mine." "Mine, mine, mine," she taunts, sliding down next to him and sliding a wing over his shoulder. His head presses into her chest, horn uselessly angled off to one side. She takes another bite out of the apple. "You're so selfish, Sombra. What would mami and papi think?" Spits and specks of broken apple tumble from her lips as she speaks, mouth full. "We're family, kid. We share everything. Which means your day of success is my day of success, even if I've already got a mark splashed across my hide." A wing-tip scoops up a banana that she eyes curiously before shoving it into Sombra's mouth. "So... How'd you get all this, anyway?" Sombra is choking on the banana; her wing slaps against his back, and the tip of the fruit slides out of his gullet. "C'mon," his sister says, "speak, you ever-silent horn-head. Parasprite ain't got your tongue yet." Sombra bites down, tearing the banana in two. He is careful to swallow before he speaks: "Stole it." "Really?" She's already started on the second bunch of grapes, popping them off the stem with her lips. "You? What happened? Did it fall in front of you or something? No! Wait, I got it: it fell in front of another foal and then they dropped dead in front of you!" Her eyes flick down to his rump, then back up to his face. "Ain't got no idea what green's gotta do with it, though. What'd you do: fart at them?" "Took it from a house," Sombra mutters, gobbling up the remainder of the banana in as threatening a manner as he can manage. Umbral does not notice. "Took it from a house, eh?" Sombra nods, his eyes fixed on the bowl. "Go ahead, Sombra. It ain't my food." He lunges forwards. "So. This house'd have to be empty in order for you to rob it, right?" There's no answer. "Right? Sombra?" She pulls him out of the bowl, pear clenched between his teeth. He nods at her. "Anything good in there? Heh, wait. You wouldn't have checked, would you?" His head shakes, the pear now in pieces inside his teeth, a balled-up mass bulging his cheek out to one side. "Sombra, you idiot." His sister pauses, frowning, the half-eaten grapes dangling from her left forehoof. A few seconds later, she gets up, sliding another grape branch into her mouth as she does so, walks silently across the attic, pauses, and then turns again. "Where'd you say this house was?" His eyes follow her as she walks back over. He swallows. "End of long alley. Short end." She nods, but before she can leave, Sombra says, "How?" "How what? How'd I find you?" He nods, and she snorts, before sliding in next to him, moving uncomfortably close. A wing slides over his back and makes that distance unbearable. "You've got the same brains as me, kid, but you're as predictable as a guard's toilet breaks. You always come up here when you've got food, just like the last three times you weren't back at the den." The wing round his shoulder grows tight, forcing half of his head against her chest, her ribs pressing painfully into his eyes. "And that's what you'd best keep on doing. It's a safe place, up here. Wouldn't want to see you going off anywhere else. I'd end up worrying 'bout you." Her wing suddenly unfurls, ejecting Sombra out into the world in a spitting, unhappy mess; her hairs are in his mouth and the cloying, unwashed scent of her pervades his nostrils. By the time he recovers, she's slinked off into the shadows, vanishing from view and probably heading off towards the empty house – yet a small part of him remains convinced she's still there. He turns back to the bowl, only to find that it's empty. The two apples and remaining orange have vanished. And yet, the bowl remains, crystal and shining and probably expensive. To his mind, that's a victory. He picks it up in his mouth and carries it across to a corner of the room, the remaining scent of the fruit making him sniff longingly. He tucks it into a cavity inside the wall where he puts his other secret things: a stone from the old lands, a dried-up straw doll and a chunk of crystal that fell from the great castle itself. If he could arrange it, he'd place the bowl in pride of place, but he can't, and instead it's shoved roughly in. Part of him worries that it'll break, but the crystal is strong and survives the ordeal intact. Contented, he turns, looks around once more out of habit, and then leaves the attic behind him. He doesn't notice the green splash across his flank until he's out onto the alleyway, and one of the older, bigger foals chases him for daring to get a cutie mark first. The PlayThe only parts of the play Luna’s aware of are the voices; the light streaming in through the crystal walls and ceiling, though less intense than outside, remains enough to make the room, actors and audience blinding. The world before her squinting eyes is light, and nothing else. And thinking that she liked them not, Roseta spoke onto the mob, Vowing to put their claims to scorn; She'd find again the sunken hoard Of old Queen Platinum. Her lips twitch as a yawn tries to push past them, but she does not release it, knows that she must not release it. The opaqueness of the light makes it impossible to tell if anypony’s watching her, and another diplomatic setback, however minor, is something her sister’s unlikely to tolerate. She has, after all, been sent here to smile and look pretty, to look as close as possible to a princess of the Crystal Empire in some machination of her sister’s designed to win support for the Equestrian Diplomatic Mission. In practice, it just means that when her nose itches, she can’t scratch it. Her sister has also managed to stuff her in a dress that rubs against her coat intolerably, as well as chafing the feathers of her wings. The colour’s ugly too, but a close enough match to the traditional Crystal Empire colours that she’s been forced to wear it nonetheless. Luna suppresses her groan and smiles weakly, knowing that she should have double checked the wagons they brought with them. Her silver horseshoes jingle lightly as she dissipates the tension in her cramped legs. She journeyed down into the rock, Down far beneath the frozen top, And sought her way through ancient mines That had been carved before the time Of old Queen Platinum. There’ll be an intermission soon, surely. An intermission in which she can escape, unnoticed. And if not... well, she is a princess. One of the Princesses, in fact. Luna sits up a little straighter as a small amount of courage stirs inside her heart. If she is a Princess, then surely she can just... get up and go? Her front hooves shift slightly as her body weight tilts. Yes. She can just get up, walk towards the exit and... Ah. Luna’s eyes dart everywhere she can see, but there is no substance there but light, light intense enough to keep the gap ‘tween her eyelids as a crack. She can make nothing out, which leaves her plan with one large problem: She has no idea where the exit is. The spring in her front legs dissipates, and she slumps back into position, an open frown drawn across her forehead. She puffs out a breath of air, blowing her dusty-blue mane off of her forehead. Wait for the intermission it is, then. Princess Luna, crown askew and dress slightly torn, slips out of the door, closes it quietly behind her – though she’d have prefered a slam – and then grins like she’s never grinned before. She pauses in place, back pressing against the decidedly not crystal door, and listens: by the sounds of it, the play is already restarting. Which hopefully means nopony has yet noticed her escape into the gloriously dark room, one of the few places in the city not made of crystal and thus not flooded with a near oppressive level of light. Luna lets out a happy sigh, lips still curled upwards. She's free. Celestia will be angry, though hopefully more over a Luna gone missing than a Luna not watching the rest of the play. Still, if her sister is going to be angry, she may as well capitalise on it... No point in angering her twice, after all. There’s a flash of light, and Luna reappears two full paces to her left, crown in place but dress very much not. She scoops it up before it reaches the floor, crumples it into a tight ball and then sets it on fire. Celestia will be furious. That is more than likely the only dress in Luna’s size they have. Which is why, of course, it must be burnt. Its burning does, however, serve another purpose; namely that of lighting up the room. Luna looks around, flaming mass bobbing as she twists it here and there, illuminating walls and scattered props and dresses. Cobwebs hang everywhere, trapped particulates of dust glinting in the strands; her movement stirs up more like it, so then the air's left smelling murky mixed with burning dress. Eventually, the door appears between a wardrobe and a semi-dismantled dummy – head perched mournfully on a distant dresser. She maneuvers towards the exit. She opens the door, and finds the world outside to be just as dark as the in. Her eyes widen, neck craning forwards and out, crown slipping as the angle of her head tilts. She floats the burning remains of her dress out, and a dirty wall and floor are revealed, with great piles of rubbish placed here and there along. She steps out, and something splatters up her silver horseshoe, muddying the sheen. The outside’s almost like a second street, except one that’s noticeably unkept and rotten. It stinks, too – enough that she's surprised she couldn't smell it before – and the air is thick with dust and the oppressive heaviness of unclean air. Her eyes swivel round, and she spots, with some concern, shadows moving just out of the ring of light. “Hello?” She moves towards them, burning dress drifting ahead like a tame will o’ wisp. “Who's there?” Her hoof kicks rubbish ahead of her: a child’s broken toy and a clattering fragment of blue pottery, as well as the moldering decay of fecal matter and rotten food. And yet, the shadows are not made clear. They keep pace with her, staying just out of the lit circle as a constellation of reflected light. She stops then, and frowns. A mush of something drops out of the sky and lands inside on her mane; she flicks it off with barely a second thought. The action causes her horn to flash, and the light released by the magic bounces off the shadows, revealing the ponies they all are. Their manes and coats are patches of muddy fur and worn skin, as if they'd cut off chunks of their own hair, and whatever natural colours they once were are now stained into a collection of browns and blacks. All sets of eyes – though for a few, there is only one – are fixed on her, and on her silver horseshoes and crown in particular. Then the brief flash of light dies and the visage goes with it, returning them to a scattered group of wet glints. Luna smiles at them, and it is a cold smile without warmth. She concentrates, and with a brief pulse of horn, the alley becomes filled with light. “Luna!” Celestia’s on her the instant she walks through the door, all fussy and wings bristling like an overgrown mother hen. “Where in the world hast thou been? There was very nearly an incident after I insisted the royal guard be allowed to patrol the streets looking for thee, and then thou wander’st in off the street!” A white wing cuffs her round the head as one of her sister’s forelegs scoops her into a sudden hug. “I was so worried...” For the briefest moment, Luna dares to hope she might escape un-reprimanded. That hope soon passes as Celestia nicks at her neck – not violently, but hard enough to hurt. “Never do that again.” Celestia’s words are muffled, coming as they are from the midst of Luna’s mane. “I will tie thee to my horn otherwise, and then we’ll both look ridiculous.” Luna lets the show of affection continue for a moment more – perhaps two – before she presses her hoof against her sister’s chest and nudges. Seconds later, her head rises out of Celestia shock of pink mane – fuzzy now when usually well groomed – and their gazes meet. “There are Equestrian’s in the alleys,” she says, and Celestia’s expression shifts. “Earth ponies, mainly. A few pegasi and a hoofful of unicorns. They’re starving, Big Sister.” Celestia rises up, only stopping when she’s reached her full height – easily twice that of Luna’s. “How many,” she says, turning and walking back into the room proper. “Easily a hundred. Perhaps more.” And then Celestia's lack of surprise hits her, and she frowns. "Thou knewest, didn't thee? Thou knewest and didst not tell me." The room is richly furnished, with tapestries strewn across the walls and ceiling keeping out the ever-oppressive light, grand settees stocked with fat cushions and rugs laid here and there. An uncovered wall on the far side lets in a little light, as well as letting them look out onto the city itself, bearable now as the sun finally touches the horizon. It is this part of the room that Celestia heads towards; Luna follows after, half in and half out of her sister’s shadow. “Yes, I knew. Though not quite to the extent thou speakest of. I confess to hoping it would not be a problem." Celestia pauses in front of the wall, and her reflection on the it is in no way pleased; Luna dodges past the sudden swish of a pink tail as she draws closer. "But still... Thou wentest amongst them all alone? Luna–” “Several attacked me, seeking either my coin or crown, yes” – Celestia's lips press into a thin, pink line at Luna's interruption, but she stays quiet – “but I am not so weak and helpless as thou think'st that they could overpower me.” Luna turns her head and looks up, and then up a little further. “I know I may not look it yet, but I am nearly as strong as thee, Big Sister.” Celestia tosses her head, further messing up her mane. Luna has to suppress a smile at that. “So they attack thee, and yet thou still think’st to help them?” Luna interrupts again: “I am often bitten by flies, Big Sister, yet I’ve never declared war on the insects. Thou art still in a bad mood over my defiance, art thou not?” Her horn lights up, tugging at Celestia’s mane and bringing her head with it. And when she has drawn level, Luna whispers, “If thou wantest, I could always go and ask the kitchens to bring us cake. I’ve heard their chocolate is to die for...” A sudden snigger breaks the frozen look on her sister’s face. “I’ve already asked, Little Sister,” she confesses. “They don’t add enough sugar.” She sighs, and then rises back up to her full height. “Still... One hundred Equestrians, in the middle of the City. This could complicate things.” “It’s our fault they’re here,” Luna replies, following her sister’s gaze out onto the city. Her eyes catch the reflected rise of an eyebrow. “Our wars drove most of their ancestors here, I mean.” “So they are our responsibility alone, then. We are the source of every action committed by those we lead, the sole origin of every hurt suffered and wrong unrighted?” “Thou knowest I don’t mean that, Big Sister.” Luna nuzzles against her sister’s legs, and the reflection’s frown washes away. “But they are our responsibility; they are our citizens. We must save them.” “Save them? Luna, what dost thou intend to do?” A splash of yellow grips hold of her chin, and Luna finds her head turning as Celestia kneels down beside her, till the two are at eye-level. “This is not our city, Little Sister. We are not free to act freely here, and if thou triest to, thou wilt undo the very purpose of this mission. We are not here to make war, and thou riskest it if thou–” “I am not that big of a fool, Big Sister.” Luna nods her head forwards, brushing her cheek against Celestia’s. “And it does thee wrong to think me so. No, I will not risk war with the Empire over this.” She pulls back. “But still, I shall save them.” Her eyes dart over the city, ignoring the great gleaming centres of light and focusing on the cracks in between them, the places where the gloom of blackness lurks and the forgotten citizens of her country – her people – make their homes. “Yes,” she says, self-assuredness flaring in her mind. “I will save them.” And then Celestia asks, “Little Sister, where is thy dress?” and Luna cringes. Author's Note Hello. It has been a while, yes? Yes. I was not lying when I said I've no idea when this updates. Anyway, minor author’s note for this section: exactly how I’m abusing ‘thou’. You might have noticed that I have characters speaking with both “Thou” and “You” and thought, “What’s this inconsistent nutter up to.” The original usage of Thou and You depended on formality, with Thou being used to address informally—such as with loved ones or social inferiors—and you being used to address formally—such as with strangers and social betters. Obviously, over time we dropped one of them and just used the other all the time—unless you happen to live where I was born and raised, Northern Midlands, in which case we are the hicks who still use it in our strange, backward ways. Anyway, for here I’ve morphed it a bit so that “Thou” is used for intimacy—aka the Celestia-Luna relationship—and “You” is used otherwise. I’ve done this mainly because it allows me to show characters relationship without bluntly stating them and becoming a transparent moose, and also because it limits the amount of weirdness I have to load on readers. So... yeah, you won’t be seeing much of the “Thou” at any rate. Which makes this unsightly intrusion validified. Carry on being the people, I guess.
The StreetsIt is twenty five years before the rise of Nightmare Moon, and the streets of the Crystal Empire’s City are filled with rain. It doesn’t always rain in the empire, but when it does, it rains hard. The barriers that keep the City warm and practically temperate in the middle of the frozen north have to be lowered occasionally to allow the clouds through. Otherwise, they gather in a grey mesh round the City’s outsides and block off the sunlight, a marr on its perfection. That it lets in the wind and the snow and the slushing rain is a problem that has to be tolerated. After all, the process only lasts for one hour of each month, and the detritus and unpleasant cold are always quickly cleaned up in a show of the City’s magic. The City is always keen to show its strength. And yet every crystal has a crack, a part of it that is utterly out of place. The City’s power brings more than admiration: it brings refugees and fortune seekers, the unlucky and the luckless. For every polished crystal arch and well-maintained lock of hair, there is an alleyway darkened with rubbish and the starving stomachs of orphans. Every city has its slum, and the City is no different. It just hides its better. A grey waif hovers in the shadows, his black mane and tail melting into the background as his red eyes flash, almost disembodied as they hang inside the dark. The street in front of him looks half-melted under the water, wet and shining as the pastel shades of buildings slide in place along it like an impressionist's tortured dream. Rainwater falls upon his face, distracting him from his focus even as his eyes stare unblinking. He wets his lips, carting the water off his face on a sliver of pink tongue, blinks and then tries again. The fruit-basket still won’t move, no matter how hard he stares or wills his horn to cast. Any second now, the house’s owner could come back and close the window, ruining his only chance. He needs his magic to work for him this once, now more than ever. And yet it won't. He curses his horn and tries again, frowning now as hearsay from a thousand wayward souls throbs through his ears. Half-remembered lectures and ill-formed opinions cloud his mind as he tries to recall everything he’s ever heard about magic. You have to want it, he remembers, his eyes not leaving the basket. You have to want it more than anything. Strength overcomes all things. He frowns again, wanting the fruit, wanting the basket, pouring the whole of his six year old self into the desire. Hunger spurs him on as he leans forwards, out of the alley’s protective shade and into the wide-open space of the street proper. That it is stealing does not matter to him: he is hungry, and the other orphans have nothing for him to try and steal. Not that he would try, for the strong take from the weak, and he knows of no-one weaker than he who has food for him to take. This might be his only chance to eat for days. A small part of him fears that it might be his only chance to eat at all. He barely hears the clanking of armour until it's almost upon him, and when he does it is a loud and sudden and disturbingly close thing. He breaks out of his concentration blinking and dazed, like a stallion freed from a changeling’s trance, and then turns and pelts off into the dark and hidden confines of the City’s many twisting alleyways. He runs for what feels like hours, darting past the eyes and dens of the City’s other unwanted residents in a greyish blur of movement. Some call out for him to stop; a few do so by name. He isn’t stupid enough to listen. He carries on running, mane plastered against his neck and raggedly cropped tail slapping against his thighs like a wet, black rag. Smears of dirt run in haphazard lines over his flank and under-belly, formed from clods kicked up by his whirring, stumbling hooves. He breaks in and out of shadows cut from the night by the angled architecture of the City and piles of stinking, rubbish-made dens that fill the alleyway. Eventually – almost paradoxically to one who doesn’t know the alleys – he reaches the place where he began. His breathing is heavy, laboured; the ribs on his chest are far too visible, pushing painfully against his coat. His red eyes vanish as he blinks. He looks left and right, up and down the alleyway. A few pieces of rubbish have been removed since he was last here, as if someone had started to clear up and then realised the sheer scale of what they’d set themselves. He had been right to run when he did; the guards have been here. He takes another step out of the hidden sub-alley, peering anxiously around the corner for the guard he knows was here. He sees the open window instead, and the basket still perched inside of it. His lips crack open. His ears swivel round as he walks forwards, searching for anything other than the pitter-patter of water against stone. He hears nothing at all, and he is long since used to hearing the subtle signs that someone’s there. He can tell when something is being deliberately quiet: when an invitingly open den is nothing more than a trap. This doesn’t feel like one. He risks poking his head out into the gap between the City and the slums. Nothing. They’ve gone. He licks his lips, eyes returning to their old staring-partner. He frowns. He concentrates. The banging of an opening door startles him backwards, and he almost runs until his hunger tugs him back, overriding his caution completely. The house that holds the basket vomits two thoroughly drunk guards out onto the street, one of which is sagging as the other leans on him. A harassed mare follows them out, the shining locks of her hair slightly out of place as she shoos them away. They don’t go quickly and they don’t go quietly. The smaller of the two slumps with a groan onto the ground, stomach seeping out from underneath his armour into a bulge of white fat. The larger – the one who deposited the other onto the ground – turns and throws a smile back to the mare, a smile which hints at things the small, grey unicorn foal watching may not ever understand. That hardly matters to the foal. His eyes flick anxiously between the basket and the mare and the drunken pair of guards. He wants them all to leave. It is a funny kind of fairness – one he holds onto for the rest of his life. And then the guard sees the basket, and one base impulse overrides the other. The foal's eyes widen. That fruit is his. He is the one who has wanted it the longest, who has risked the most in trying to get it. He curses his horn and skitters about from hoof to hoof. The tears of a child grow in his eyes. Hate blossoms in his chest, strong and gnawing: hate at the City, hate at the alleyways, hate at the guards. Hate at the strong and at his own weaknesses. His horns flickers, and an answering stain gleams off the apple held in the guard’s hoof. Nopony notices, not even the foal. The guard reaches up and bites a chunk out of the apple as the mare hurls abuse at him. The stallion by his hooves mumbles groggily as he pulls himself up off the floor. A heartbeat later, the larger one flinches backwards; the mare pauses, and there is horror in her eyes as the guard collapses outside of her house, armour ringing as it strikes off the street. The other groggily looks up before he starts shouting in alarm, stumbling unsteadily to his feet and bellowing a mixture of anger and concern. The foal just watches all of it, his face shining with confusion and a dash of hope. A minute later, and the street is utterly empty, the mare having long since ran for help whilst the living guard struggled after her, a dying burden on his back. What's left is a deserted street that's wet with rain and coated with almost-hoarfrost; nopony will be coming out in this weather. Chunks of the apple are left scattered around in a red, trampled slush; the rainwater carries the smaller parts of it far away and into the gutters. Globules of spit and vomit ride along with them. The foal takes his first step out of the alley and into the city. His eyes settle on the scattered contents of the basket, and then past them to the now empty house, its still open door letting a slit of warm, yellow light spill out onto the street. He licks his lips, and walks forwards.
The AtticThe foal sits near the attic's edge, the whole of the City of Light before him and a bundle of grapes dangling in his grip. He considers popping the grapes into his mouth one by one for a half-second, before shoveling the whole thing in, stem and all. His tongue wraps round one of the berries, squashing it into a chewy mush of liquid and skin. He drinks it down greedily, not even pausing for breath, and before he's even swallowed, he's started on another. The journey to where he's sitting was a different route from his usual one. He'd climbed into the forgotten rafters of the City's abandoned innards far earlier than was usual, skittering atop rooftops and along slumped-in attics in a shrouding halo of dust. He'd paused only once, when voices called from down below, but not to him. There was a family beneath him, laughing and chatting round an open fire as he'd paused up above them, bowl clenched inside his teeth and decaying crystal-rafters creaking under his hooves. They must have been a new addition to the alleyways, a new collection of refugees come to try their fortune in a rigged game. Most families broke apart quickly within the City, splintering and fracturing as hate and hunger and strength overcame the bonds. He'd watched them for a moment, the red of his eyes spilling past his irises under the flickering light of the flames, and then passed on. He pulls the chewed and empty stem from his mouth. He looks at it once, bites gingerly on it, spits and then flicks the mangled thing out over the side. The alleyways are always filled with rubbish, and he feels a small amount of pride at being able to add to it for once. He bends down, nosing inside the bowl placed next to him. He pulls an orange out, teeth digging into the upper flesh as his eyes flick round his surroundings. The attic at his back is still empty, though it's so utterly gloomed over that his certainty is little more than a guess. Still, the floor creaks whenever he steps on it; nopony else will be able to sneak up behind him without him noticing. His gaze turns round to the edge. It's a long way down, as the water trickling past him makes clear, splashing loudly as it strikes against the alley's floor. The rain itself has stopped and the shinning barrier of a deep dark-blue is back, tinged red at one edge in a simulation of the coming dawn. The water itself drips down from the roof above his head in a free-flowing waterfall that he is careful to avoid. The City itself glints before him, wet and touched in places by melting ice. Parts of it shimmer naturally, the polished crystal that the City uses to build perfectly reflecting the rays of the rising sun. And at the centre of it all is the great castle, shining like a sun ray thrust into the earth. His eyes scrunch up as they pass over it; the afterimage it leaves dances in his vision for nearly a minute. Satisfied, he bites down on the orange, spraying his face and throat with the sweet, acidic taste of it. He almost drops it in surprise, but manages to hold on, turning it round with his tongue and then lancing his teeth down into it. Another burst squirts out, and he swallows, contented. "That looks good," a voice speaks from behind him, and his jaws shudder together, slicing the orange in two. "Mind sharing?" He spins round, his back hoof sliding the crystal bowl towards the edge: it would be better that he destroyed it than if he lost it. To lose is a weakness, and he must not appear weak. He must never appear weak. The figure, however, is one he recognises, and she smiles at him as she slides the bowl back with the tip of a dusky brown wing, green eyes winking. "You should always share, Sombra." His older sister licks her lips, and one of her wings flicks a green apple into an arc that ends in a flash of yellow teeth. "Generosity beat Discord, after all; you should honour that at all times. Like, say, in the here and now." Sombra swallows, the orange sliding painfully down his throat in a half-chewed lump. "Mine," he mutters stubbornly as his sister crunches on his apple. She smiles in response, a sliver of green skin caught between her teeth. "They're mine, Umbrel. Mine." "Mine, mine, mine," she taunts, sliding down next to him and sliding a wing over his shoulder. His head presses into her chest, horn uselessly angled off to one side. She takes another bite out of the apple. "You're so selfish, Sombra. What would mami and papi think?" Spits and specks of broken apple tumble from her lips as she speaks, mouth full. "We're family, kid. We share everything. Which means your day of success is my day of success, even if I've already got a mark splashed across my hide." A wing-tip scoops up a banana that she eyes curiously before shoving it into Sombra's mouth. "So... How'd you get all this, anyway?" Sombra is choking on the banana; her wing slaps against his back, and the tip of the fruit slides out of his gullet. "C'mon," his sister says, "speak, you ever-silent horn-head. Parasprite ain't got your tongue yet." Sombra bites down, tearing the banana in two. He is careful to swallow before he speaks: "Stole it." "Really?" She's already started on the second bunch of grapes, popping them off the stem with her lips. "You? What happened? Did it fall in front of you or something? No! Wait, I got it: it fell in front of another foal and then they dropped dead in front of you!" Her eyes flick down to his rump, then back up to his face. "Ain't got no idea what green's gotta do with it, though. What'd you do: fart at them?" "Took it from a house," Sombra mutters, gobbling up the remainder of the banana in as threatening a manner as he can manage. Umbral does not notice. "Took it from a house, eh?" Sombra nods, his eyes fixed on the bowl. "Go ahead, Sombra. It ain't my food." He lunges forwards. "So. This house'd have to be empty in order for you to rob it, right?" There's no answer. "Right? Sombra?" She pulls him out of the bowl, pear clenched between his teeth. He nods at her. "Anything good in there? Heh, wait. You wouldn't have checked, would you?" His head shakes, the pear now in pieces inside his teeth, a balled-up mass bulging his cheek out to one side. "Sombra, you idiot." His sister pauses, frowning, the half-eaten grapes dangling from her left forehoof. A few seconds later, she gets up, sliding another grape branch into her mouth as she does so, walks silently across the attic, pauses, and then turns again. "Where'd you say this house was?" His eyes follow her as she walks back over. He swallows. "End of long alley. Short end." She nods, but before she can leave, Sombra says, "How?" "How what? How'd I find you?" He nods, and she snorts, before sliding in next to him, moving uncomfortably close. A wing slides over his back and makes that distance unbearable. "You've got the same brains as me, kid, but you're as predictable as a guard's toilet breaks. You always come up here when you've got food, just like the last three times you weren't back at the den." The wing round his shoulder grows tight, forcing half of his head against her chest, her ribs pressing painfully into his eyes. "And that's what you'd best keep on doing. It's a safe place, up here. Wouldn't want to see you going off anywhere else. I'd end up worrying 'bout you." Her wing suddenly unfurls, ejecting Sombra out into the world in a spitting, unhappy mess; her hairs are in his mouth and the cloying, unwashed scent of her pervades his nostrils. By the time he recovers, she's slinked off into the shadows, vanishing from view and probably heading off towards the empty house – yet a small part of him remains convinced she's still there. He turns back to the bowl, only to find that it's empty. The two apples and remaining orange have vanished. And yet, the bowl remains, crystal and shining and probably expensive. To his mind, that's a victory. He picks it up in his mouth and carries it across to a corner of the room, the remaining scent of the fruit making him sniff longingly. He tucks it into a cavity inside the wall where he puts his other secret things: a stone from the old lands, a dried-up straw doll and a chunk of crystal that fell from the great castle itself. If he could arrange it, he'd place the bowl in pride of place, but he can't, and instead it's shoved roughly in. Part of him worries that it'll break, but the crystal is strong and survives the ordeal intact. Contented, he turns, looks around once more out of habit, and then leaves the attic behind him. He doesn't notice the green splash across his flank until he's out onto the alleyway, and one of the older, bigger foals chases him for daring to get a cutie mark first.
The PlayThe only parts of the play Luna’s aware of are the voices; the light streaming in through the crystal walls and ceiling, though less intense than outside, remains enough to make the room, actors and audience blinding. The world before her squinting eyes is light, and nothing else. And thinking that she liked them not, Roseta spoke onto the mob, Vowing to put their claims to scorn; She'd find again the sunken hoard Of old Queen Platinum. Her lips twitch as a yawn tries to push past them, but she does not release it, knows that she must not release it. The opaqueness of the light makes it impossible to tell if anypony’s watching her, and another diplomatic setback, however minor, is something her sister’s unlikely to tolerate. She has, after all, been sent here to smile and look pretty, to look as close as possible to a princess of the Crystal Empire in some machination of her sister’s designed to win support for the Equestrian Diplomatic Mission. In practice, it just means that when her nose itches, she can’t scratch it. Her sister has also managed to stuff her in a dress that rubs against her coat intolerably, as well as chafing the feathers of her wings. The colour’s ugly too, but a close enough match to the traditional Crystal Empire colours that she’s been forced to wear it nonetheless. Luna suppresses her groan and smiles weakly, knowing that she should have double checked the wagons they brought with them. Her silver horseshoes jingle lightly as she dissipates the tension in her cramped legs. She journeyed down into the rock, Down far beneath the frozen top, And sought her way through ancient mines That had been carved before the time Of old Queen Platinum. There’ll be an intermission soon, surely. An intermission in which she can escape, unnoticed. And if not... well, she is a princess. One of the Princesses, in fact. Luna sits up a little straighter as a small amount of courage stirs inside her heart. If she is a Princess, then surely she can just... get up and go? Her front hooves shift slightly as her body weight tilts. Yes. She can just get up, walk towards the exit and... Ah. Luna’s eyes dart everywhere she can see, but there is no substance there but light, light intense enough to keep the gap ‘tween her eyelids as a crack. She can make nothing out, which leaves her plan with one large problem: She has no idea where the exit is. The spring in her front legs dissipates, and she slumps back into position, an open frown drawn across her forehead. She puffs out a breath of air, blowing her dusty-blue mane off of her forehead. Wait for the intermission it is, then. Princess Luna, crown askew and dress slightly torn, slips out of the door, closes it quietly behind her – though she’d have prefered a slam – and then grins like she’s never grinned before. She pauses in place, back pressing against the decidedly not crystal door, and listens: by the sounds of it, the play is already restarting. Which hopefully means nopony has yet noticed her escape into the gloriously dark room, one of the few places in the city not made of crystal and thus not flooded with a near oppressive level of light. Luna lets out a happy sigh, lips still curled upwards. She's free. Celestia will be angry, though hopefully more over a Luna gone missing than a Luna not watching the rest of the play. Still, if her sister is going to be angry, she may as well capitalise on it... No point in angering her twice, after all. There’s a flash of light, and Luna reappears two full paces to her left, crown in place but dress very much not. She scoops it up before it reaches the floor, crumples it into a tight ball and then sets it on fire. Celestia will be furious. That is more than likely the only dress in Luna’s size they have. Which is why, of course, it must be burnt. Its burning does, however, serve another purpose; namely that of lighting up the room. Luna looks around, flaming mass bobbing as she twists it here and there, illuminating walls and scattered props and dresses. Cobwebs hang everywhere, trapped particulates of dust glinting in the strands; her movement stirs up more like it, so then the air's left smelling murky mixed with burning dress. Eventually, the door appears between a wardrobe and a semi-dismantled dummy – head perched mournfully on a distant dresser. She maneuvers towards the exit. She opens the door, and finds the world outside to be just as dark as the in. Her eyes widen, neck craning forwards and out, crown slipping as the angle of her head tilts. She floats the burning remains of her dress out, and a dirty wall and floor are revealed, with great piles of rubbish placed here and there along. She steps out, and something splatters up her silver horseshoe, muddying the sheen. The outside’s almost like a second street, except one that’s noticeably unkept and rotten. It stinks, too – enough that she's surprised she couldn't smell it before – and the air is thick with dust and the oppressive heaviness of unclean air. Her eyes swivel round, and she spots, with some concern, shadows moving just out of the ring of light. “Hello?” She moves towards them, burning dress drifting ahead like a tame will o’ wisp. “Who's there?” Her hoof kicks rubbish ahead of her: a child’s broken toy and a clattering fragment of blue pottery, as well as the moldering decay of fecal matter and rotten food. And yet, the shadows are not made clear. They keep pace with her, staying just out of the lit circle as a constellation of reflected light. She stops then, and frowns. A mush of something drops out of the sky and lands inside on her mane; she flicks it off with barely a second thought. The action causes her horn to flash, and the light released by the magic bounces off the shadows, revealing the ponies they all are. Their manes and coats are patches of muddy fur and worn skin, as if they'd cut off chunks of their own hair, and whatever natural colours they once were are now stained into a collection of browns and blacks. All sets of eyes – though for a few, there is only one – are fixed on her, and on her silver horseshoes and crown in particular. Then the brief flash of light dies and the visage goes with it, returning them to a scattered group of wet glints. Luna smiles at them, and it is a cold smile without warmth. She concentrates, and with a brief pulse of horn, the alley becomes filled with light. “Luna!” Celestia’s on her the instant she walks through the door, all fussy and wings bristling like an overgrown mother hen. “Where in the world hast thou been? There was very nearly an incident after I insisted the royal guard be allowed to patrol the streets looking for thee, and then thou wander’st in off the street!” A white wing cuffs her round the head as one of her sister’s forelegs scoops her into a sudden hug. “I was so worried...” For the briefest moment, Luna dares to hope she might escape un-reprimanded. That hope soon passes as Celestia nicks at her neck – not violently, but hard enough to hurt. “Never do that again.” Celestia’s words are muffled, coming as they are from the midst of Luna’s mane. “I will tie thee to my horn otherwise, and then we’ll both look ridiculous.” Luna lets the show of affection continue for a moment more – perhaps two – before she presses her hoof against her sister’s chest and nudges. Seconds later, her head rises out of Celestia shock of pink mane – fuzzy now when usually well groomed – and their gazes meet. “There are Equestrian’s in the alleys,” she says, and Celestia’s expression shifts. “Earth ponies, mainly. A few pegasi and a hoofful of unicorns. They’re starving, Big Sister.” Celestia rises up, only stopping when she’s reached her full height – easily twice that of Luna’s. “How many,” she says, turning and walking back into the room proper. “Easily a hundred. Perhaps more.” And then Celestia's lack of surprise hits her, and she frowns. "Thou knewest, didn't thee? Thou knewest and didst not tell me." The room is richly furnished, with tapestries strewn across the walls and ceiling keeping out the ever-oppressive light, grand settees stocked with fat cushions and rugs laid here and there. An uncovered wall on the far side lets in a little light, as well as letting them look out onto the city itself, bearable now as the sun finally touches the horizon. It is this part of the room that Celestia heads towards; Luna follows after, half in and half out of her sister’s shadow. “Yes, I knew. Though not quite to the extent thou speakest of. I confess to hoping it would not be a problem." Celestia pauses in front of the wall, and her reflection on the it is in no way pleased; Luna dodges past the sudden swish of a pink tail as she draws closer. "But still... Thou wentest amongst them all alone? Luna–” “Several attacked me, seeking either my coin or crown, yes” – Celestia's lips press into a thin, pink line at Luna's interruption, but she stays quiet – “but I am not so weak and helpless as thou think'st that they could overpower me.” Luna turns her head and looks up, and then up a little further. “I know I may not look it yet, but I am nearly as strong as thee, Big Sister.” Celestia tosses her head, further messing up her mane. Luna has to suppress a smile at that. “So they attack thee, and yet thou still think’st to help them?” Luna interrupts again: “I am often bitten by flies, Big Sister, yet I’ve never declared war on the insects. Thou art still in a bad mood over my defiance, art thou not?” Her horn lights up, tugging at Celestia’s mane and bringing her head with it. And when she has drawn level, Luna whispers, “If thou wantest, I could always go and ask the kitchens to bring us cake. I’ve heard their chocolate is to die for...” A sudden snigger breaks the frozen look on her sister’s face. “I’ve already asked, Little Sister,” she confesses. “They don’t add enough sugar.” She sighs, and then rises back up to her full height. “Still... One hundred Equestrians, in the middle of the City. This could complicate things.” “It’s our fault they’re here,” Luna replies, following her sister’s gaze out onto the city. Her eyes catch the reflected rise of an eyebrow. “Our wars drove most of their ancestors here, I mean.” “So they are our responsibility alone, then. We are the source of every action committed by those we lead, the sole origin of every hurt suffered and wrong unrighted?” “Thou knowest I don’t mean that, Big Sister.” Luna nuzzles against her sister’s legs, and the reflection’s frown washes away. “But they are our responsibility; they are our citizens. We must save them.” “Save them? Luna, what dost thou intend to do?” A splash of yellow grips hold of her chin, and Luna finds her head turning as Celestia kneels down beside her, till the two are at eye-level. “This is not our city, Little Sister. We are not free to act freely here, and if thou triest to, thou wilt undo the very purpose of this mission. We are not here to make war, and thou riskest it if thou–” “I am not that big of a fool, Big Sister.” Luna nods her head forwards, brushing her cheek against Celestia’s. “And it does thee wrong to think me so. No, I will not risk war with the Empire over this.” She pulls back. “But still, I shall save them.” Her eyes dart over the city, ignoring the great gleaming centres of light and focusing on the cracks in between them, the places where the gloom of blackness lurks and the forgotten citizens of her country – her people – make their homes. “Yes,” she says, self-assuredness flaring in her mind. “I will save them.” And then Celestia asks, “Little Sister, where is thy dress?” and Luna cringes. Author's Note Hello. It has been a while, yes? Yes. I was not lying when I said I've no idea when this updates. Anyway, minor author’s note for this section: exactly how I’m abusing ‘thou’. You might have noticed that I have characters speaking with both “Thou” and “You” and thought, “What’s this inconsistent nutter up to.” The original usage of Thou and You depended on formality, with Thou being used to address informally—such as with loved ones or social inferiors—and you being used to address formally—such as with strangers and social betters. Obviously, over time we dropped one of them and just used the other all the time—unless you happen to live where I was born and raised, Northern Midlands, in which case we are the hicks who still use it in our strange, backward ways. Anyway, for here I’ve morphed it a bit so that “Thou” is used for intimacy—aka the Celestia-Luna relationship—and “You” is used otherwise. I’ve done this mainly because it allows me to show characters relationship without bluntly stating them and becoming a transparent moose, and also because it limits the amount of weirdness I have to load on readers. So... yeah, you won’t be seeing much of the “Thou” at any rate. Which makes this unsightly intrusion validified. Carry on being the people, I guess.
