Second Entry
Sun Phase: Setting, cloudy sky
Moon Phase: Rising, First Quarter in Twenty-one Degrees Cancer
Tenth Lunar Manse (Forehead)
Planetary Day, Hour: Venus, Mercury
Dear Diary,
I had a night terror early this morning — a waking nightmare — when I awoke to behold a swarthy Saddle Arabian alchemist, decadently robed and with hatred smoldering in the black coals that served as his eyes. He had crouched down at my bedside, his face was only inches away from mine, so that when I opened my eyes, his own would be my first sight. I did so, screamed, dashed out of my bedchamber (or study) and nearly sent myself hurtling down the stairs. Luckily, being a magician and therefore intimated with the states of consciousness, I was able to snap out of it very quickly and realize the terrible spectre was just that: a spectre. So I stumbled back to bed and awoke only two-or-so hours later, no worse for wear.
It isn’t a normal occurrence, my being afflicted with such parasomnias; even when I was a child, when most ponies would be prone to such episodes. I didn’t perform any autohypnoses or meditations that would result in that sort of phenomenon, so I’m at a loss for its origin. I’ve resolved to install safety measures in my apartment, like sturdier locks for the windows and a gate at the top of the stairs, in case I should somnambulate in the night and make an attempt on myself as I sleep.
I would have picked up those things today, if it weren’t so eventful. Besides, I didn’t think awfully much of the night terror this morning, as I was much too preoccupied with readying myself for the first day of my new career.
After bathing, and anointing my coat and mane, I habited myself in Grandfather’s old shantung and linen robes (the finest clothing in my wardrobe) and stepped out into the street. Morne Scintilla was locking her door and greeted me. After a short, friendly conversation, she suggested I walk her to the Chancellor’s office on the palace grounds. The chancery was in the same direction as the royal observatory, which adjoins to the palace, so I agreed, and we set off.
It may sound foolish, but I was relieved to have Morne walk with me, for several guard checkpoints lay between my home and the observatory, on account of its close proximity to Celestia’s usual haunts. I have all of my documents and proofs-of-identity in order, and I had taken special care to keep them on my person this morning, but the anxious notion had long occupied my thoughts that there would be some mistake or misunderstanding that would result poorly for me. Having Morne there to guide me through the procedures, though, helped to alleviate my anxiety.
(While my family originates in Canterlot, and keeps close ties to it, I grew up on a family estate out in the country, on the other side of the mountain. I attended the magic conservatory in the city, sure enough, after my cutie mark happed to appear in my eleventh year, but my father never let me stay longer than was necessary for my schooling; so I never chanced to truly acclimate to this conurban mode of living. Herein, I think, lay the root of my anxieties.)
At the first checkpoint, Morne had identified herself and produced her cancellarial insignia as proof. I followed suit, in an embarrassingly mechanical fashion, and the guards greeted me very cordially, saying my reputation preceded my arrival. I was too flattered to be confused, as I should have been, so I thanked them and continued.
Morne decided that she and I would walk the scenic route to the chancery, in honor of my ‘first day’, so she led me through the palatial gardens, where laburnum and weigela adorn marble statuary of equine heroes and abominable monstrosities alike. Words alone cannot describe the splendor of those luxuriant gardens aglow in the heavenly rays of morning. Morne and I spent a few short minutes sat on a bench, absorbing the radiance of our bucolic environs. Morne said something to me, but I wasn’t listening.
I remember being so moved by the imagery that I thought about taking painting back up, which would be asinine to attempt with all of my new responsibilities, but even as I write this entry and recall the beauty of the gardens, I feel the urge to take up a brush and palette, and evoke these memories onto a canvas.
After we lingered in the garden, we walked to the chancery and she thanked me with a nuzzle. I asked a patrolling guard for directions to the observatory and he pointed me to the foyer of the palace and through a set of staircases and hallways. I trotted my way there, and only one guard took the time to identify me, saying, “Halt!” and “Who goes there?” just as I had read in so many books as a colt. After I identified myself, he apologized for his ‘impertinence’ (he used that word) and offered to lead me the rest of the way. At this display, I finally came to my senses and realized the peculiarity of this treatment, at least for a pony of as little consequence as myself.
The guard led me to the observatory’s entrance and politely excused himself before hurrying back to his post (which I’m not sure he had the leave to abandon). I steeled myself to open the carven wood door, and just as I grasped the handle with my magic, it swung open from a force within. I was greeted by a unicorn filly (or mare, as it may be more apropos to call her) who said, “Good morning, Eventide. My name is Empyrean Spark, and Master is waiting for you, upstairs.”
As you can imagine, I was taken aback by her forwardness. Masterfully concealing my bemusement, though, I answered, “Thank you, Empyrean Spark, it’s very nice to meet you, and I-” but she nodded and smirked and spun around before I could finish.
She trotted over to the spiraling staircase that hugged the round wall of the building and began to ascend, looking at me to be sure I was following. I did follow, but this time her behavior had disconcerted me too greatly not to show it, and I thought I heard her laugh.
(As we stepped up the stairs, I took a few seconds to study her appearance. Her coat is the same shade of violet as the flowerhead of milk thistle, like a lighter shade of my own purple coat but with a powdery, almost pastel-like quality. Her mane is a shade lighter than her coat, and didn’t seem to be done up in any especial style, this morning, but was still attractive. She’s a little pony, and lithe, and she doesn’t wear any make-up [and doesn’t need to, I think]. Reflecting on it, I’m nearly certain she was born under the sign of Gemini [though her eyes are a very pretty pale red, which points to the influence of Mars].)
We entered the observatory proper, and stood beside the massive telescope at center was a magician so powerful that I sensed his magic before I saw his appearance. The ‘master’ of whom Empyrean spoke, Illimitable Nebula.
[The entry seems to stop here abruptly, and the next page of the diary is filled with sketches and studies of flowers and shrubs and other assorted flora, along with a rough portrait of a smiling mare. On the pages after that, the entry is concluded.]