The doors to Luna’s chambers had always been an imposing affair: enormous twin slabs of ebony, set with a hundred silver stars, and a glittering crystal moon at their center. No one knew for certain what went on behind those doors, and if there was any truth to the rumors that were roaming the halls of Canterlot Castle, no one wanted to. The lesser nobles had learned to stay well clear of the entire hallway, and the ‘fearless’ Royal Guards were becoming reluctant to march past on their patrols.
Even Her Royal Highness, Princess Celestia, paused at Luna’s door—though not for quite the same reasons. The protection spells Luna had placed on them were powerful indeed, and it had taken her big sister a bit longer than she’d expected to break them. Celestia smiled in satisfaction as the last spell collapsed into smoke, finally allowing her to pry open the feared ebony doors.
It was a breach of trust on her part, of course—what happened in Luna’s chambers was none of her business—but trust only went so far. There were whispers now, of what Princess Luna was doing, holed up in her chambers from dawn until dusk, emerging only to raise the moon. Gossip growing, breeding, multiplying. It was time now to lay those rumors to rest. She’d trusted Luna up to this point, but trust could only go so far. Her concern for Luna went further still.
And she’d been right to worry, she realized, as she took her first steps into the blackness beyond the doors and found herself greeted by a sour smell, like spoiled milk. Surely something was wrong. Terribly wrong, for Luna’s chambers to have turned so dank and dark and rotten.
“Luna?” she called softly, lighting her horn and taking a few more cautious steps forward. The soft golden light of her magic revealed a floor strewn with ancient, tattered books. Shelves of ingredients lined the walls, stocked with powdered newt, mandragora root, and bottles of something that glowed a sickening green. Celestia’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she advanced and the smell of spoiled milk grew ever stronger. Whatever Luna had been doing all this time, it seemed she’d been busy. Very busy.
“Luna?” she called again. Louder. Sterner.
“Quietly, Sister, I beg you,” whispered a voice from the corner. “You will wake her.”
Celestia stopped. Her? “Luna, what have you been doing in here?”
“You should not have entered my chambers without asking first, Sister.” Luna, lighting her own horn with her deep blue magic, stepped out from the shadows and smiled. “But you are forgiven. It is good to see you.”
It had only been a week since Celestia had seen her little sister’s face, and yet much had changed in it already. Her starry mane was blurred and fading around the edges, and dark half-moon circles were spreading out from beneath her eyes. She looked exhausted. No—worse than that. She looked sick.
“Luna—”
“No, no, Sister,” said Luna, seeing the worry in Celestia’s eyes. “You need not fear. I am quite all right.” She turned and, raising her hoof again to her lips, whispered, “Come. There is something I wish to show you.”
Cautiously, Celestia followed her to the far corner of the room, where a pile of overstuffed pillows and silken blankets had been set up.
“I have toiled long and hard,” Luna whispered. “But I have finally succeeded.”
“Succeeded in what?” Celestia whispered back, eyes locked on the blankets which slowly rose and fell—like breathing. “What is going on, Luna? What is this?”
“This,” said Luna, pulling back the covers, “is all I have ever wanted.”
For a moment, Celestia didn’t understand what she was seeing. It looked almost like a sleeping foal. Almost. Perhaps a foal taken and twisted by some grand evil power. Glossy insectoid wings buzzed and hummed in time with gentle sleepy snores. Hole-pocked hooves stretched out as it tossed and turned, and its shiny black carapace gleamed, reflecting the combined gold-and-blue light of the two sisters’ magic.
Instinctively, Celestia took a step backward.
“Is she not beautiful?” asked Luna, beaming. She pointed to the jagged black horn that sprouted from its forehead and her smile widened even further. “Magic and wings. I made her in our likeness.”
Celestia gasped, turning toward Luna in horror. “You made this... this thing?”
“Her,” Luna corrected. “And yes. She is the fruit of all my efforts.”
Celestia shook her head, trying to overcome the shock of this news. “Luna...” she said, carefully smoothing the fear from her voice. “You cannot simply create life. Nothing good can come of it. It isn’t natural.”
And, more than that, it was dark magic. Fabricating a living, breathing animal from nothing required spells she'd thought long forgotten. Dangerous spells, with wild and unpredictable results. Did Luna even realize what she’d just done? What she was getting into?
“There is no harm in her,” Luna protested. “I’ve only made a creature who can appreciate the night, as a pony loves the day. A subject of my very own.” She sighed and gently stroked its stringy mane. Barely audible, she whispered, “A daughter, even.”
“You already have subjects,” said Celestia. “Subjects who love you already, more than that thing—which is not your daughter—ever can. You have not heard what I have heard—the rumors, the concern on our subjects’ lips. They’re worried for you.”
“Worried for what I might do, you mean,” Luna grumbled, placing the covers back over her creation. “They have no interest in me otherwise.”
It was true, in some small way, though it pained Celestia to admit it. Rarely did anyone speak of Princess Luna, except in hushed voices. Perhaps, she realized, for good reason. “Can’t it be both?” she pleaded. “Luna, whatever the problem is, this cannot be the answer. Get rid of it. Now.”
“How could I be so cruel?” Luna asked, adjusting the pillows to better cradle the creature nesting on them. “How could you be so cruel, Sister? To look at something so small and innocent, and tell me it does not deserve compassion?”
She looked up at Celestia, with eyes wide and teary, and Celestia felt her resistance melt. Luna had always played the begging game better than she had.
“Please, Sister,” said Luna. “She needs me.”
From beneath the pile of pillows and blankets, the creature stirred, as if it could sense its own danger. Slowly, but surely, in great gasping wails, it began to cry.
Celestia could have refused, even so. Luna was on a dark path already, and keeping the creature she’d created could only make that path darker. It would be best, she reasoned, to end it now. To cut the rot off before it could spread. But no matter what her head said, her heart simply wasn’t made of stone. She couldn’t refuse her baby sister. Not when she was so desperate for affection that she seemed on the verge of crying herself, just like her so-called daughter.
“Fine,” said Celestia, defeated. “Fine. You can keep it... her.”
“Oh, thank you, Sister!” said Luna, wiping away the tears forming on her eyes and giving her sister a grateful hug. “I do not know what to say!”
“Promise me, though,” said Celestia, still clinging stubbornly to some shred of her better judgment, “that it will not leave this room. Not once, unless I allow it.”
Luna nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. I promise you, Sister.”
With that, Luna turned her attention toward soothing her crying creation, and Celestia walked out of the room. She felt somewhat better than she had, walking in, she supposed. What she’d found hadn’t been quite as bad as the absolute worst of her fears... and Luna had smiled. That hadn’t happened in a long time, and Celestia’d almost forgotten how much she missed her sister’s wonderful grin.
She only hoped, as the imposing black doors to Luna’s chambers slammed shut behind her, that she had not also just made a terrible mistake.
For as long as she could remember, Antumbra had lived within the confines of her mother’s chambers. Not that she minded. It was a comfortable space, damp and dark to her liking, and everything she could ever think to ask for, her mother provided.
The only times she thought about the world outside at all were when her mother had to leave her, which was always horrible. Antumbra loved her mother very much, and she knew her mother loved her too. She knew because could feel it: a nourishing, glowing warmth, like a low flame, centered at her mother’s heart. And no matter how long she basked in it, it never seemed to be enough.
It was an awful thing, to be cut off from that warmth, and to feel that gnawing, aching, starving need for affection creep over her once more. She hated it.
“Why must you leave, Mother?” Antumbra’d asked one day, nestled safely in her mother’s arms, and the glow of her love.
And, as she always did, her mother replied, “Because I must raise the moon every night, Dearest.”
“Why, then, can I not follow you?”
“Because Aunt Celestia made me promise you would stay in this room,” said her mother, hugging Antumbra closer. “And it is important to keep our promises.”
And to that, Antumbra huffed, as she always did. She did not like Aunt Celestia. That tall, stern-eyed pony who always barged in unannounced, interrupting everything her mother was doing. Whose heart always felt icy and cold, with no love meant for her.
Who was this Aunt Celestia, to tell her mother what she could and could not do? To always be there, standing in the way of Antumbra’s time with her mother? She was tired of it. Why was her mother not tired also?
“I don’t like Aunt Celestia very much,” she harrumphed.
“Oh, do not say that, my sweet young Antumbra,” said her mother, playfully rustling her mane. “She has only the best of intentions.”
“I do not think so,” said Antumbra stubbornly. “If she did, she’d let me go out with you and watch when you raise your beautiful moon.”
In truth, Antumbra had never really seen the moon, except once or twice through the curtained windows of her mother’s chambers. She didn’t care for it nearly as much as her mother, but she knew her mother loved it most when she said things like that. The warmth radiating from her mother’s heart grew just a little bit stronger, and Antumbra smiled, nestling her head into her mother’s chest to get closer.
“Well, perhaps...” said her mother, blushing slightly, “Give it time, Dearest. I’m sure Aunt Celestia will love you as much as I do soon enough, and when that happens, we can go out together, as often as you wish. I promise.”
“But why not now, if we both wish for it?” Antumbra pleaded, her wings whirring in agitation. She didn’t want to wait. Not when that aching hunger returned every time her mother left. Not when she’d never felt even a shred of warm love from this Aunt Celestia. “Does she not love you?”
“Of, of course she does!” said her mother, tightening her grip ever so slightly on Antumbra. And, mixed in with the love, Antumbra felt something else from her mother’s heart. Something bright and scorching hot. Anger, perhaps? “Where would you ever get such a silly idea?”
“Then if she loves you, why will she not listen to you?”
“Shh. Never you worry about that, Dearest,” said her mother, cradling Antumbra in her arms and rocking softly. “I shall ask Aunt Celestia on the morrow, and we will see if something cannot be done. One way or another. You will see the moon rise, yet.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Antumbra, finally satisfied. “I love you.”
“And I love you, Dearest.”
As a fresh surge of her mother’s love embraced and enveloped her, Antumbra sighed in contentment, and slowly drifted off to sleep.
“Welcome, welcome, Sister,” said Luna, closing the double-doors to her chamber behind Celestia. “We are so glad you could join us. Are we not, Antumbra?”
“We are, Mother,” said Antumbra, nodding stiffly. “It is good that you could visit us.”
“It’s my pleasure, Luna,” said Celestia, turning toward her sister. The corners of her mouth twitched imperceptibly downward as she looked Luna over. “You’re looking... well.”
“As are you, Sister,” said Luna, giving her a tired smile. If she’d noticed that her own coat was turning a sickly shade of light blue, or that her face was almost skeletally thin, she gave no sign of it. “You seem as radiant as ever.”
“A little sun never hurts,” said Celestia teasingly. “Perhaps if you left your chambers just a bit more often...”
“Not while my Antumbra needs me,” said Luna firmly. “My visits outside must be kept short while she cannot follow me.”
“Of course,” Celestia murmured. She glanced in Antumbra’s direction, noting its unblinking emerald eyes trained directly on her, quietly following her every move. Not unlike a wolf studying its eventual prey.
“It is a shame she cannot,” Luna continued, “for she is as harmless as a rabbit, and twice as sweet. Why, just recently, she—”
“As I have told you a dozen times, in as many days,” said Celestia, cutting Luna off, “Antumbra will stay in your chambers until I am quite sure it—she—is safe to let loose in the castle.” She glanced again at Antumbra. Those wolfish green eyes still watched her silently, no sign on its face that she’d said anything at all. “And I am not yet convinced she is.”
Luna’s face fell. “As you wish, Sister.”
Celestia could only hope her sister understood it wasn’t a decision made out of malice or spite. In fact, she almost wanted to let Antumbra loose, if only because it would allow Luna to stop barricading herself in her dungeon of a room and rejoin the world at large.
But there was something... off, about Antumbra. Something she didn’t quite like. Something she didn’t want to let near her unsuspecting subjects. So long as that something was there, she was going to keep it locked up, where she could keep an eye on it.
Finally. Antumbra spoke up, in that rasping, rusty-metal voice of hers. “Mother...”
“Oh, but I almost forgot!” said Luna, her face suddenly brightening, “Antumbra has something she wishes to show you.”
Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Does she now?”
“She does!” said Luna, clearly excited. “Did you know, Sister, that, when I left my chambers to raise the moon not three nights ago, Cherry Blossom fled at the very sight of me?”
“I had not heard of it,” said Celestia, resolving quietly to have a discussion with Cherry Blossom after this. It was hard enough to convince Luna that her subjects were not starting to fear her without the servants running away when she got too close. “But go on.”
Luna beamed at Antumbra. “Go on,” she said, “show Aunt Celestia your new trick. As we practiced.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Antumbra, closing its eyes in concentration. Its jagged horn began sparking with magic, and its black-shelled body was engulfed in crackling green flames.
Reflexively, Celestia moved forward to stop Antumbra, but she was stopped herself by Luna’s hoof on her shoulder. “Watch.”
In seconds, the flames subsided into flickering emerald embers, and with them Antumbra seemed to have vanished. Standing in its place was a bright pink pony with a flower for a cutie mark. Cherry Blossom.
No, Celestia corrected herself. Not Cherry Blossom. Merely Antumbra in Cherry Blossom’s form.
“I’m very s-sorry I ran from you, Princess Luna,” said Antumbra, copying Cherry Blossom’s quavery voice with uncanny accuracy. “I always t-thought you were a great princess.”
“Your apology is accepted, Miss Cherry Blossom,” Luna purred. “And your compliments likewise.”
“O-of course, Princess Luna,” said Antumbra, bowing. “T-then, if you have no f-further need of me, I shall take my l-leave...”
Luna clapped her hooves together with glee as the green flames engulfed Antumbra once more and she returned to her original form. “Was that not wonderful?” Luna asked. “Is she not fantastic?”
“Only because you taught me so well, Mother,” said Antumbra modestly.
Luna beamed and wrapped her arms around Antumbra. “A little of both, then, my precious little changeling.”
Celestia simply frowned, a pit forming in the center of her stomach. “Is that what you’re calling it now?” she asked quietly.
“Her,” said Luna, just as quietly.
“Her,” Celestia conceded. “Don’t you think, though, that it would be better to go and speak with Cherry Blossom instead? The real Cherry Blossom?”
“The real Cherry Blossom?” asked Luna. She let go of Antumbra and turned to Celestia, eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Sister?”
“I think you should go to Cherry Blossom and talk to her, Luna,” said Celestia candidly. “The imitation is excellent, I’ll admit, but you can’t hole up in your room and pretend that Antumbra’s... act is as good to you as an actual—”
“Thank you for your time, Sister,” said Luna, her tone cold and hard as ice. “It was good that you could spare it to come see Antumbra’s performance. I am sure that you are quite busy attending to your subjects, however, so we shall detain you no longer.” Her horn glowed and the doors to her chamber flew open. “Perhaps we will meet again sometime soon.”
“Oh, I’m sure we shall,” said Celestia, and without another word she moved to leave, keenly aware of the flicker of triumph in Antumbra’s eyes as she walked out.
No sooner had the black double-doors slammed shut behind her than she headed off to deliver orders to the Royal Guards. Antumbra had copied Cherry Blossom perfectly. Everything, right down to her voice. How could she have done that, Celestia wondered, if she’d been confined to Luna’s chambers at all times?
How, indeed?
It was clear now that Luna would require a watchful eye of her own. Celestia had trusted her sister’s judgment up to this point. She’d trusted her little sister not to let the bug-like monstrosity she’d created consume her... but her trust ended the moment Luna was willing to break a promise to her big sister for the sake of that creature she called her daughter.
And if, in fact, it turned out that Antumbra was the seed from which Luna’s sickness grew, Celestia would not hesitate to remove it. Burn it. Crush it. Until it could never harm her sister again.
For as much as Luna loved her ‘daughter,’ Celestia would always love her little sister even more.
Though Antumbra had happily lived her entire life surrounded by walls, no roof she’d ever known could compare to the sky. An endless ocean of deep blue darkness, filled with twinkling, shining stars, just like her mother’s mane. Her mother had told her once that even the nearest of the tiny pinpricks of light in the sky only seemed so tiny because it was so far away. And if, somehow, Antumbra could ever fly far enough to reach it, she’d find it too big for her to comprehend. A million times the size of her mother’s chambers. A billion. More.
It was a very big world out there, Antumbra realized again, and seeing it always made her feel very small.
“You are not cold, are you, Dearest?” asked her mother, feeling Antumbra shaking with awe. She draped a feathered wing over Antumbra, shielding her from the freezing winds that buffeted the balcony. “Keep close to me. We shall stay warm together.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Antumbra, smiling. She appreciated the gesture, though it hadn’t been necessary. The offered wing was no help against the cold, but it was a sign of her mother’s love, and the love itself was all Antumbra needed to feel warm and safe.
Even in a world so breathtakingly vast as the one beyond her mother’s door.
Sure that Antumbra was cozy beneath her wing, her mother sighed a tired sigh and looked up to the sky. “It is time now to raise the moon,” she said. “Watch closely, Dearest.”
Antumbra watched, fascinated, as her mother closed her eyes and set her horn aglow. She looked out over the horizon and saw the full moon creeping upward, slowly rising to its rightful place as crown jewel of the sky. Its pure white glow was not quite as bright as she remembered it from last night, or the night before, but it still held a certain majesty that nothing else could hope to match.
Or so Antumbra thought, anyway.
“It is gorgeous, Mother,” said Antumbra, as the moon finally came to rest at the center of the night sky. “There is no sight that compares.”
Her mother laughed. “A trifle compared to what it could be, Dearest,” she said, yawning suddenly. “I have not been at my best of late.”
“I think it is lovely, even so,” Antumbra insisted. And it was true. The moonrise had become the highlight of her nighttime jaunts with her mother. She had never paid attention to it much before, when the moon had merely been another object seen through her mother’s window, but now, staring up from the balcony, knowing her mother’s moon was centerpiece to a sky so much bigger than she’d ever imagined...
“I am lucky to have you as my daughter, Antumbra,” said her mother, bringing Antumbra closer still with her wing. She dropped her gaze from the sparkling night sky to the earth below, deathly quiet and dotted with darkened houses. “If only everypony could see things as you do,” she said sadly.
“But why don’t they, Mother?” Antumbra asked. “How can they not, when they see what I see?”
Her mother merely shook her head and smiled. “You are growing fast, Antumbra,” she said, “but you are still young. Someday you shall understand that things are not quite so simple as that.”
Antumbra huffed, unsatisfied with that answer. “It does not make sense to me,” she grumbled.
“It does not make sense to me either,” said her mother simply.
For a short time, neither of them spoke, and the only sound on the balcony was the whistling of the wind around them.
Then, suddenly, a voice, calling faintly from inside: “Luna? Are you still up there?” Instantly, Antumbra froze, and so did her mother. They both knew that voice.
“Quickly!” her mother hissed. “The curtains! Hide!”
With no time to say more, Antumbra sprang for the balcony’s curtains and huddled behind them, keeping herself as small and still as she could. It was a flimsy excuse for a hiding place, but maybe—just maybe—Aunt Celestia would not notice her next to her mother.
Maybe.
She tensed as the gentle tapping of hoofsteps passed her by. Sheer, panicked instinct told her she had to run, to fly away from the danger as fast as her wings would take her. Antumbra swallowed it down and placed a hole-pocked hoof on her wings to keep them from buzzing on their own. She had to stay put. Her mother had ordered her to hide behind the curtains, and that was that.
“Good to see you again, Luna,” came Aunt Celestia’s voice, muffled slightly by the curtain. “The guards told me you would be up here, but I’d thought you might have left by now.”
“And why would that be?” came her mother’s voice, calm and even. Antumbra wasn’t fooled, though, and surely Aunt Celestia wouldn’t be either. Even from her hiding place, Antumbra could sense her mother’s overwhelming fear. No matter how well her mother tried to mask it, it was there, and Aunt Celestia would see it soon enough.
“Antumbra, of course,” said Aunt Celestia. “You aren’t usually away from her for so long. I was curious—”
“Antumbra is a growing foal,” said her mother curtly. “I am teaching her to handle herself without me.”
“Of course,” said Aunt Celestia, sounding completely unconvinced. Antumbra’s heart sank. Aunt Celestia had already guessed the truth. Surely her mother would realize. Would try to end the conversation quickly.
A particularly chilly breeze suddenly blew by, causing the curtains to flutter, and forcing Antumbra to hold them close. She couldn’t be revealed just yet, lest Aunt Celestia’s suspicions be confirmed.
“Are you cold, Luna?” asked Aunt Celestia. “You don’t look well.”
“I am f-fine, Sister,” spat her mother.
“No, I don’t think you are,” said Aunt Celestia. “You’re as pale as a ghost and thin as a rail. You simply don’t look well, Luna, and I think I know why.”
“I have b-business elsewhere, Sister. Unless you—”
“It’s Antumbra,” said Aunt Celestia. “It’s always been Antumbra. Ever since you made it, it’s been feeding off of you.”
“I, I do not know what you are talking about, Sister. Antumbra eats hay and oats, just as we do.”
From behind the curtains, Antumbra winced, guiltily recalling the terrible, foul food she choked down daily to satisfy her mother. Food that had never seemed as wholesome or sustaining as her mother’s own love...
“Look at the moon, Luna,” said Aunt Celestia calmly. “It’s dimmer than it’s ever been. Be reasonable, Luna. Something is draining your magic. That something is Antumbra.” Aunt Celestia’s voice softened further, barely above a whisper now, and Antumbra felt that familiar warmth again in the air: love. But not meant for her. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want to see you get hurt, Luna. Get rid of Antumbra. Get rid of it now, before it can do any worse to you. Please.”
“I... No... She wouldn’t...”
Antumbra could stand it no longer. Aunt Celestia was manipulating her mother to her own ends, like a puppet on strings, and Antumbra would not allow anyone to treat her mother that way, even if it meant revealing herself. She focused on her magic, and took Cherry Blossom’s form, hoping desperately that Aunt Celestia wouldn’t see the puff of bright green fire through the curtain...
“Um, Princess Celestia...” said Antumbra, stepping out quietly from the curtains. “One of the chancellors wishes to see you in the throne room i-immediately.”
She felt two sets of eyes on her in Cherry Blossom’s guise. Aunt Celestia’s annoyed, her mother’s relieved. Neither said anything.
Antumbra coughed. “H-he told me it’s urgent.”
“Very well,” said Aunt Celestia, giving her mother one last meaningful glance as she turned to leave. “I will see what he wants.”
She stopped for a moment by the balcony doors, and, for just a moment, Antumbra could feel that ice-cold malice Aunt Celestia reserved only for her, and her alone. “You know, Cherry Blossom,” she said softly, dangerously, “I could have sworn you were on vacation today.”
And with that last parting shot, she walked off, leaving Antumbra alone again with her mother.
Aunt Celestia knew. For certain now, if she’d only suspected before. And yet, Antumbra was not worried. Surely, if the worst came to pass, her mother would protect her from Aunt Celestia’s wrath, just as she always had. No, what bothered her now more than anything was something else Aunt Celestia had said...
“Mother...” said Antumbra, still in Cherry Blossom’s form, “It’s not true, is it? That I feed—”
“No, Dearest,” said her mother kindly, and love poured forth again from her heart, instead of fear. “Not at all.” The cold breeze blew by again, and her mother shivered. “Now, perhaps we should return to our chambers and rest,” she said, covering Antumbra again with her wing. “It has been a long night.”
Reluctantly, Antumbra nodded and followed her mother inside.
Antumbra woke alone, not to the gentle radiance of her mother’s love, but to the scorching heat of the sun above her head. She was not in her mother’s bed, where she’d fallen asleep just the night before, but instead surrounded by sand. Only sand. As far as the eye could see.
“You are awake,” said a voice behind her. Aunt Celestia’s. Always Aunt Celestia’s. Every time something went wrong...
“W-where am I?” Antumbra asked, turning to face Aunt Celestia. “T-tell me!”
She’d meant to sound demanding—strong and sure, like her mother—but instead it came out as more of a squeak. Aunt Celestia was twice as tall as she was, and surely a hundred times as powerful. Antumbra had never had the courage to face her before. Not on her own.
Where was her mother, to protect her? To shelter her, and send Aunt Celestia away, and tell her everything would be all right?
Antumbra didn’t know, and that scared her more than anything else.
“You are hereby banished, Antumbra,” said Aunt Celestia simply, looking down on Antumbra with no pity in her eyes and no love in her heart. “It is your fate now to wander the wastelands, forever, where you can do no harm to any pony—least of all my sister.”
Antumbra felt her chest tighten above the gnawing emptiness in her belly. Was it true? Had she been feeding off her mother? Sapping her strength every moment they’d ever been together? Was that why Aunt Celestia was banishing her? Because her mother—
Her face flushed with shame. How could she even think such thoughts? Her mother had told her it wasn’t true as recently as last night. It was Aunt Celestia, again. Always Aunt Celestia. She was lying. Aunt Celestia had deceived her mother and banished her.
But surely her mother would see the truth and save her soon. She was too wise and clever to be fooled for long.
Antumbra held onto that thought as the hollow, empty feeling of being away from her mother grew ever more intense.
“Even this is more than you deserve,” said Aunt Celestia. She leaned in, closer to Antumbra. “You hurt my sister,” she hissed, her every word carrying a terrible power. “You poisoned her mind and fed off the rot. I have destroyed nations for less, and I have spared you now for her sake only. Thank her every day you continue to draw breath.”
Antumbra trembled in fear, but silently. She held fast to that one thought, her rock against everything Aunt Celestia could do to her: Mother will save me. Mother will save me.
Mother will save me...
“If you follow the sun,” said Aunt Celestia, turning away from her, suddenly as cool and distant as she’d just been fierce, “you will find shelter and water.” She flapped her great white wings and rose into the sky. “Do not try to follow me,” she warned Antumbra, “or what mercy I have will run dry.”
With that final remark, Aunt Celestia flew off, shrinking into the distance until she was only a tiny black dot in the infinite blue sky.
Clinging to her one thought above all else, even her hatred for Aunt Celestia, and the hunger gnawing at her stomach, Antumbra began to walk. Doggedly, she put one holed hoof in front of the other, following the glaring yellow sun wherever it led her. She only had to reach shelter, she reasoned. Then she could hold out. Survive, even, instead of baking to death in the harsh light of the daytime sun. And then she would wait, for as long as she had to.
She was in a very big world now, and she was a very small changeling compared to it all, but even so, whatever else happened, Antumbra still trusted her mother would find her.
“Gone!” Luna’s low, sad moans echoed from the darkness past her open doors. “She’s gone... Stolen! Stolen from me...”
Celestia stepped inside as quietly as she could. “Luna?” she asked softly.
Luna lunged at her from out of the shadows. “You!” she roared. “You took my daughter from me, Sister!”
“I did,” said Celestia, taking absolute care to not let her breaking heart show on her face. “It was for your own goo—”
“Where is she? Return her!” Luna demanded, fresh tears rolling down her pale, skeletal face. “Now, Sister, if you love me!”
Celestia looked at her sister, at arms worn down to the bone, and a once-blue mane that now looked almost bleached. She couldn’t bear to say no to Luna, but she could bear to refuse the snarling, savage wreck Antumbra had made her.
“I’m sorry, Luna. Antumbra’s gone now.”
Luna howled and retreated back into the darkness of her room, sobbing all the while.
Celestia didn’t try to follow. “Give it some time, Luna,” she said soothingly. “You’ll see. You’ll start feeling much better soon, and you’ll realize—”
“Get out,” came Luna’s reply.
“You have hundreds of subjects you haven’t spoken to in months, Luna. Was Antumbra so important to you that—”
“Out, Sister!” Luna screamed. “Out! Out! Out! I never wish to see your face again!”
And a wave of solid black magic hit her, catching Celestia completely by surprise. It threw her out from Luna’s chambers, and into the corridors, slamming the doors shut behind her as she flew. Slowly, sadly, Celestia got to her hooves, winded by the blow, but otherwise unharmed. “I’m sorry, Luna,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let it come this far.”
She gave the ebony doors to Luna’s chambers one final forlorn glance and sighed, praying silently that she had not just made a terrible mistake.
