//------------------------------// // Seven // Story: The Moon Also Rises // by Nicroburst //------------------------------// The mountains are cold; bitter, frozen peaks and valleys. I can no longer fly, harsh winds sending icy rocks tumbling down slopes and through the air. On hoof, my progress is agonisingly slow. I fear the world itself is turning on me, even as I near its salvation. Each second I delay shrinks what remains to us. There is an urgency I have not felt before, as if something external spurs me to action. Seven LUNA WAS USED TO THE NIGHT. It was her domain, a place of safety where cold air and warm dreams sheltered her from the world. Hid her and let her shine. She lived her life in the dark, but the blackness surrounding her surpassed the absence of the sun and the light of the moon. She had lost count of the number of times she’d slept, falling to the ground and laying her head on her outstretched forelegs. It was the only way she had on keeping track of time, however rudimentary, but the blackness, pervasive and unceasing, slowly eroded her senses until all she knew was the gentle thuds of her hooves on the hard ground at the edges of her consciousness. The voice, the threat that had locked her away here, had directed her attention to the Nightmare. Her Dream had reminded her of its influence, of how it seized on her fears of irrelevance and dreams of love. But the Nightmare had no bearing on why she’d come here. It did not affect her purpose. She couldn’t quite remember. What? There was something, on the tip of her tongue, something nagging. Luna shook her head violently, trying to clear it, but she couldn’t tell if it helped. Was there something obscuring her thoughts? She couldn’t detect any outside influence, no fog clouding her mind. There was nothing there, just like the nothing that made up her existence. No wonder she’d Dreamt. It was all she had left of the outside world. Except that wasn’t right. She couldn’t experience it anymore, but that didn’t mean she was lost to it. She carried her life with her, carried her hopes and dreams and the friendships of those she knew. She had a purpose, something particularly in mind. Why had she come here? She’d been accepted back into Equestria, back into her sister’s life. She’d worked so hard for that chance, had been doing so well. She’d been happy, as far as that went. Was it the Drac’s prophecy? Certainly it had pushed her, had led her to this path. But could she really say that it was her impetus for starting down it? The Drac had advised her to find herself. He had planted a seed of hope, festering in her mind like some poison, eating away at her peace. Hope for a return to a time when she had ruled, not advised; spent her time alongside her sister, not stalking through filly’s dreams. Lust for power had always been her weakness. But it was not a need for control, but a hubris born in the belief that she could do better. From the outside, she saw her sister’s failures, and she knew she could fix them. She desired equality, a justice of sorts. That was what had tempted her, hidden in his words; the notion that she had lost something, somewhere. Had she come to find it? Was she merely following the hope that there was more to her, more she could bring to Equestria. Something she could find here, in nowhere, something that would bring her love. Love. Why did she crave it? A simple desire, buried deep but still there, pulling her through failures and successes alike. At her core, it was why she’d turned to the Nightmare in the first place; a desire share her love, her night, with her subjects, and to have them love her for it. Was she here for that? She did not believe she had lost anything, just as she couldn’t feel anything blocking her mind. Just a fleeting thought, the barest hint of an itch, driving her subconsciously. No, she didn’t believe that. She could acknowledge her flaws and desires; could deliberate on her motivations, but she didn’t believe the Drac. Her return had been salvation, of the purest form. It was a chance at a second chance. But why had she thrown that away, to come here, on a fool’s errand? Even had she found something, some threat that could justify the barrier she’d crossed, what did she plan to do about it? Arming herself with knowledge meant nothing, for there was nothing to change, nothing to fix. What was her purpose here, in the blackness? She thought this had been a journey of discovery, of herself and of the world. Was she truly so desperate? Luna’s eyes wandered around, registering nothing. There was nothing to register. She sat on her haunches, concentrating. It was somewhat difficult, after so long spent suppressing it, but she brought up her anger, blew on the embers and felt it race across the surface of her mind, a spark given fuel. It was an old anger, born in jealousy and fear, and it cut through her mind like a bolt of lightning slicing through the air. It cleared away the fog, and she knew. Control was always something Luna had valued. How could it not be, given her history? Everypony saw her Nightmare as an alicorn of night, with draconic eyes and a mane of shadow. To Luna, her Nightmare was a loss of control, a complete surrender to her emotions. Raw expression gave it power and purpose. She had felt control, in Equestria. She’d locked herself away, suppressed the desires and feelings that had led to her fall, and the result was a soul in tortured harmony. She regretted her actions, certainly, fiercely rebuked herself for succumbing. But she hadn’t ever sought to explore the reasons for those emotions. Her anger and jealousy had ruled her, and that had been enough to resent them. But they were a part of her, as natural and as right as the stars in the night sky. She welcomed them, and felt their joy as they tore at the shroud that hung over her. She knew why she’d come here, what the Drac had claimed she’d lost. She’d found it, quite by accident, in just the same way. A friend long presumed to be an enemy. Luna knew what she was doing here, now. All other aims had become immaterial the moment of her entrapment. She was here to escape. *** Twilight trotted along the Canterlot street, carefully following the directions Rarity had given her. Her Sight was an incredibly useful tool, and Twilight found herself calling on it more and more. It was a pity she couldn’t use it herself, a fact Twilight found increasingly annoying as Rarity grew more proficient in pinpointing positions, times, even witnessing events as they took place. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how it worked. Twilight’s talents, insofar Coromantic ability, lay in less abstract fields. It had taken Twilight some time to really understand the difference between what they did. It was the same as the difference between Applejack and Pinkie Pie, or Rainbow and Fluttershy. Where Twilight focused on events external to herself, Rarity directed her magic inwards. Twilight wasn’t entirely sure why she was unable to do the same, but when she’d tried there simply wasn’t anything there. Still, perhaps it was a blessing. Rarity’s Sight was a huge weight on her shoulders, and using it wasn’t entirely pleasant, particularly with some of the clients Twilight had attracted. She winced, remembering one incident—Rarity wouldn’t tell them, but she had bolted out of her tub, cheeks aflame and tore down the street. It had taken a week for her to emerge from the Carousel Boutique. Twilight rounded a corner, silently counting blocks off in her head. She was nearly there . . . there it was, the charred wood a clear giveaway. She was shocked it was still standing after five years, even if the authorities hadn’t bothered with it, weather alone should have knocked it down by now. Curious, Twilight stepped up close, sniffing at the planks, and vertical support beams. If the fire had eaten through them, as Trixie’s story had indicated, they should be brittle, should crumble under her hooves. A fire that hot would eat right through this wood. Except the beam was solid. Brushing ash and charcoal off, Twilight could see whole wood, untarnished. That explained why the house was still standing then, though it didn’t excuse it being left alone for so long. The fire must have swept through too quickly to set teeth into the house. Twilight traced a circle around the house, using her magic to knock the debris clinging to the walls to the ground. The fire Trixie had described had been intense, a raging inferno, surrounding her from all sides. But if it hadn’t had time to spread, had appeared around them before they could react, wouldn’t that indicate multiple sources? Not to mention what had put the fire out. Twilight frowned, completing her circuit. There were no obvious marks beyond the uniform scarring. But if it had come from inside, why was the outside of the house marked at all? Twilight stopped moving, thinking. Trixie had presented the incident as an accident. She didn’t know how it had happened. Perhaps it was a lightning strike. That, combined with a storm, could have led to the situation Twilight saw in the house’s remains. But how had it gotten so bad, so fast? Twilight was beginning to think that it wasn’t an accident. What she knew just didn’t fit. Maybe she could get Rarity to take a look, maybe uncover some more details. For now, she could set it aside. Twilight, remembering what Rarity had told her, quickly found the basement stairs. She gave the rest of the house a glance, but it was clear that neither Trixie nor her partner had used it. Trotting down the basement stairs, she saw the large central table, dominating the space, with several passages leading off from it, to small side rooms. Twilight took her time, moving around the basement, trying to get a feel for it. Where ponies had moved, how they’d spent their time. She found the small space under the window that Rarity had said Trixie spent most of her time in. It would fit a pony, just, and allow the sunlight in in the morning, straight down onto the pony sleeping there. The table had more than a few documents, spread out across it haphazardly. There were more than a few bits accompanying them, seemingly piled in regards to their intended purpose. Twilight leafed through several, though she was careful to leave them just as she’d found them. One was a sheet of notes, summarising some of Trixie’s findings and research about her condition. The corners of Twilight’s mouth curled slightly, reading it. Trixie had extrapolated a great deal from her work, bringing in other ponies research as well to form several reasonable theories. Twilight dismissed them all, quickly seeing the flaws. One failed to account for her friend’s lack of magic. Another required a Spiritual link that operated logically, in a fashion similar to a Mental link, though Trixie didn’t know those names. There were other sheets there, too, ones written in a different hoof to Trixie’s. They could only be the work of her mystery partner, Boundless. Twilight took more care reading those, going over each line for the subtle hints to his character. He seemed to have built quite the network of contacts, reports coming in from multiple cities across Equestria. Twilight even recognised some of the names; knowledge garnered through her years of what was essentially detective work, in alleys and slums. What was worrying was the way they seemed to defer to him, at least in tone. Twilight knew those ponies, knew they were not easily intimidated. It was impressive a colt so young had managed to inspire such loyalty. Or was it loyalty? The notes didn’t treat him with respect, at least not the respect of a beloved leader. Sun and Moon, Twilight had read enough of Celestia’s mail to recognise that type of fawning. Frowning, she picked up another, scanning the words. Boundless, A place has been prepared in Manehattan, should you choose to use it. Cleft was unable to procure the exact specifications, though it will work. There has been no mention of the relic. Clodhoof It was brief, professional, and unquestionably subservient. Twilight hadn’t run into Clodhoof, or Cleft, before, but there was something in the language and pre-emptive shifting of blame that spoke of fear. Twilight needed to see this colt. Trixie had seemed scared of him, afraid to leave or to disappoint. Rarity had mentioned he was able to negate telekinesis. Twilight had never heard of him before, though she felt like she should, a sixteen-year-old still lacking a cutie mark. She completed another circuit of the basement before retreating upstairs. He had no reason to believe their hideout compromised, and would eventually return here. All she had to do was wait. Twilight found a nice spot, tucked away on the second story under a window. She’d be able to see the street from here, with minimal danger of being spotted herself, and could follow him down to the basement, effectively trapping him in with her. As she settled down to wait, she caught herself thinking of past jobs; clients asking her to retrieve stolen items, usually, or break up unruly gangs that had sprouted in the cities. Some of those names, on Boundless’ documents, should have still been locked away, serving time for their crimes. Had he sprung them free? Had that earned their loyalty? Each time she’d had the advantage of her Coromancy. It was a fickle magic, not nearly as reliable as the standard unicorn spells she’d spent her youth learning, but made up for that in its scale. The more invested Twilight became, the more emotionally-charged, the more powerful she grew. It had made her unstoppable. Even if it was common knowledge, there would be almost no other pony who could use it. Twilight didn’t know why she and her friends had been so blessed, or how they’d ended up together, but it was the only reason they’d been able to bind to the Elements in the first place. Without Coromancy, there would have been no link. Initially, Twilight had resented Celestia and Luna’s secrecy. She hadn’t experienced life then, not as she had now. She’d been naïve. Ponies weren’t ready to openly wield that kind of power, perhaps would never be. It was the power to level cities in a blow, or to halt the sun and the moon in the sky: the power of an alicorn. Twilight didn’t know how the fire that had caught Trixie had started, or what exactly had happened during the blaze. But her escape, barely injured while her friends, lying next to her died, told Twilight something. From her hiding spot, secure, she trusted her body to the planks supporting her and projected her mind below. Carefully feeling in the wood, she found tiny fragments, mixed in the wood. Twilight raised one of them to her lips, tasting it. The emotion jolted through her body, causing her shoulders to slump and her head to droop down to the ground. Twilight hadn’t encountered it before, but she was knew enough to recognise the situation before her. Someone had doused the flames with Despair. *** “I found somepony,” Trixie said. She was trotting alongside Boundless, making their way back to the safehouse. Boundless raised an eyebrow, tilting his head towards her. “Somepony who will know more about the Crystal Heart,” she said, glancing down. “Oh?” Boundless said, perking up. “Who might this pony be, I wonder?” “Shining Armour,” Trixie said. Boundless snorted. “No. He’s out of reach, even for us,” he said. “A shame, I’ll admit, but we must be practical.” “Actually, he’s not,” Trixie said, a vague feeling of nausea rising in her gut. She ignored it. “He’s right here, in Canterlot. Will be for a few days.” Boundless frowned. “How do you know that?” “I’ve been talking with his sister,” she said, “Twilight Sparkle.” “The Arch-Magus?” he asked. Trixie nodded mutely. “You didn’t . . .?” He left the question hanging. Trixie knew perfectly well what he was asking. It would have been the height of folly to cast mental magic on someone as powerful as Twilight. “Of course not,” Trixie said, flicking her tail at him. “I’m the responsible one, remember.” He grinned at her. She thought she saw mirth in those eyes, mixed among the wildness. She wilted anyway. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.” They rounded a corner, coming onto a larger street. Trixie slipped behind Boundless as they trotted single-file past a wagon that was blocking the way. Clearing the obstacle, she moved back up alongside him. He glanced at her briefly, head bobbing with each step. “Why were you speaking with Twilight Sparkle?” he asked. Careful now “I found a reference to her in the Archives, thought I’d follow a lead. Just good fortune that turned it into two,” Trixie said carefully. Boundless narrowed his eyes. “You’re letting others help with your research,” he said slowly. “Why now?” “I don’t have to discuss this with you,” Trixie said, looking anywhere but at him. He stopped moving, just halted so suddenly that Trixie continued a metre. Looking over her shoulder, she caught sight of that mask, settling into place over his features. No emotion showed there, no hint of feeling. Like a robot of some kind, with unknown ends. “Oh, I think you do,” he said calmly, still not moving, just staring at her, perfectly still. “It doesn’t pertain to you,” Trixie said. She would not be intimidated, not again. “Everything pertains to me,” he said, now tilting his head, “Everything that could affect me, anyway. You’re hiding something.” You’ll have to tell him something. You can’t just keep denying this. “Because I gave up,” Trixie said, hanging her head. It was easy for ponies to believe that, to believe that she had just given into apathy. After four years of searching, many would have. “No, no you didn’t. You couldn’t, not you,” he said. “That’s what I admire about you, Trixie; persistence.” “I . . . followed a lead. That’s all. I thought I could get away without telling her too much,” she said. “Well?” “She offered me a position, of sorts. To stay with her in Ponyville, while we research,” Trixie said. “I thought that was exactly what you were trying to avoid,” Boundless said. “It . . . isn’t what I thought it would be. It’s like friends, helping each other, opposed to the scientist and her experiment. I might take her up on it.” “No, you won’t.” “Oh? I don’t recall you having a say in my life, Boundless,” Trixie said. She tried not show her weakness; slight panting, wild eye movements, ears laid flat back against her skull. Her stage training served her well, helping her shut off that visceral part of her mind, preventing it from controlling her. “Don’t I?” Boundless asked, stepping over to her. Trixie found it impossible to move, legs frozen as he came up next to her. So close she almost shied away, forcing her response down as it rose, trembling, in her throat. “N-No,” she stammered. “You don’t.” “I say otherwise,” he said, coming around to behind her and out of her line of view. Panic rose again in her as Trixie desperately tried to stay in control. “I say you are mine, for as long as I need you,” he said, continuing his circuit. Trixie broke her paralysis, jumping away from him, and turning to meet his gaze. “Because if I don’t need you . . .” Boundless said, a smile coming to his face. It wasn’t a happy grin, full of laughter, or a rictus carved from madness. It was the simple, sad smile of the inevitable. “. . . if I have no further use for you . . .” he said, horn igniting. Trixie followed suit, but somehow her light, typically so much stronger, more experienced, seemed smaller, a candle against wildfire. “. . . then you must be put down, if only to prevent disruption to my plans.” Last chance, Trixie! Come on, you can do it! We’re right here with you. Kick his flank! Her friends’ voices were small against Boundless’ echoing words, screaming through her mind. The threat there was finally explicit, finally more than her imagination. From any other pony, Trixie would have ignored it, knowing it to be just that, a threat, no more. From Boundless, it was a promise. He wouldn’t bluff, ever. He didn’t need to. Still, her friends’ voices were there. She heard them cut through the noise, give her a hold on herself, focus her on her goal. Stabilised, she drew more power, sending her horn into over-glow, and lowered herself into a combat stance. “You can’t beat me, Boundless. You know you can’t,” Trixie said. Sun and Stars, she prayed, let that be true. Boundless chuckled. “Not directly, no. So you’d beat me,” he said, stepping forward to press his forehead against hers. “What then, Trixie?” he asked intently, eyes staring at her. “What would you do then? Leave? Run to your friends in Ponyville?” Trixie said nothing, did nothing. “I will not stop. I can’t be stopped. And one day, a few weeks down the road, you’ll stumble on the stairs, or you’ll slip on a balcony, or you’ll fall into a lake. Such a tragedy, really.” “You can end it, now, once and for all, you know,” Boundless said, stepping back. He squared himself, rolling both shoulders, and extinguished his horn. “You have the strength. All it takes is going a little too far. Can you do it?” Oh, Celestia . . . that’s brilliant. It’s sick is what it is. Could she kill him? Trixie had studied anatomy; she knew where to apply her magic. Just a slight tug and his life would end, tumbling onto the pavement. It wouldn’t even require a spell, just a telekinetic field inside his body, severing an artery or stopping the heart. Kill a pony. She thought back to the discussion with Cumulus and Brash in the hideout, about Boundless. He could do it, Trixie realised. She hadn’t really stopped and considered, made it true in her image of him. That capability . . . justified her terror. “Well, Trixie?” Boundless said. “I haven’t got all day.” There was crime in Equestria, certainly, but over the last thousand years, to the best of her knowledge, there had been no murder. Not one case of a pony deliberately maiming another, even. Such an act was unconscionable, an evil greater than anything she could imagine. That evil stood in front of her. “Do it!” Boundless said, taking a step forward. He wasn’t evil, not in and of himself. Just . . . indifferent to the chaos he caused, to the suffering around him. She could stop him, not only for herself but for all the others he might hurt, just for crossing his path. She could . . . Yet she couldn’t. Despite everything, she couldn’t do it. That was what separated somepony like her, somepony who’d rob a store, lie and steal to get what she needed, from Boundless. It was the boundary, and she could not cross it, not without becoming him. Trixie had always despised the heroes of the stories, who always let the bad guy get away, only to come back with a new plan, hurting more and more people. She hadn’t understood, but she did now. She couldn’t escape, not as she was. She extinguished her horn, dropped to the pavement, and quietly began to weep. I’m so sorry. We both are. “You can’t do it,” Boundless said, continuing forward. “I choose not to,” Trixie said, forcing the words out between gentle sobs. “No, you can’t,” Boundless said, stepping up to her. “That’s what I’m here for. That’s what we’re going to fix. Come, Trixie.” He turned, resumed their trip to the safehouse. Blindly, Trixie stood and followed the sound of his hooves striking the pavement. *** “It is time for you to choose a name, youngling.” “I have a name,” Spike muttered. “Perhaps you could use it, once in a while. “Spike is a pony-name, youngling,” the Drac rumbled. “It is not you. It does not describe you.” Dragons, according to the Drac, chose their own names, save for their birth-name. Similar to ponies, a name was a description of the most important aspects of that dragon’s character. It could refer to ambitions, desires or talents, even lineage and status. A dragon might change their name several times over their lifetime, to reflect fundamental changes in themselves. The Drac had held five names in his life. He referred to them as old friends, though they were to be considered dead. Dragons do not speak of the dead. Still, knowing the names of a dragon could tell you his entire life. Spike only had a rough mastery of the language, but even so he was able to grasp the gist of the story embedded in that sequence. The Drac had gone from Deregh Ethar; the fire-breathing hatchling, to Endor; the Companion, then an adult, Ingeir Iyliam; Devoted to the Lost. Nevertheless, he had gone on to become an influential elder, Morn; the Ruler. Now, though, he was simply Agyrt Vaeros; Eldest Flame. Spike was a hatchling name, chosen for him by Twilight, but it no longer fit. He was growing beyond her, beyond the life ponies could provide. He knew that, though he mourned the passing of his youth. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Spike had been delaying, insisting he wasn’t ready. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he wanted to discard the name, toss it away like an old scale. It was one of the few things he had left of his childhood and a personal link back to Twilight, to those ponies important to him. Even though he saw them virtually every day, kept them in his life as best he could, he felt a vague sense of nostalgia for days gone by. Eventually, though, they would grow old, slow down. Ponyville would change around him, a rock in the sea of time. Everything had to end, so he kept his name. It was a silent tribute to the inevitable future. Spike shook his head, clearing it of the morbid, unnecessarily poetic thoughts. He never had been very good at composing verse, anyway. Spike wasn’t his name, as far as it described him. But it carried with it an identity that he was loath to give up. “You know your name, youngling. You can feel it, in your bones. Wearing another’s label is not an affirmation of the bond you share. Your name, your true name, speaks louder than any gesture.” “I don’t want to move on,” Spike said. “Fighting inevitability is never wise. Burying yourself won’t bring back the past,” the Drac said, leaning down to Spike’s eye level. “Be true to yourself. Your name is a mirror, youngling. It sees all of you, reflects not just the parts that deal with your friends. Those relationships are not the entirety of your being.” “Twilight gave me my name. It is precious to me.” “You are more than her, no matter how important. I will not accept a dragon subjugating himself to a pony out of a childish wish for the past. What is your name, youngling?” As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Spike could feel it. It didn’t beckon, calling to him from far away, partially shrouded, nor was it ever-present, as an ache deep down. But when the Drac asked him his name, his mind didn’t reply with Spike. Somewhere, buried in his mind under layers of fear, he already knew it, had known it for some time. “I’m . . . afraid. Of letting go,” Spike said, trembling. “What is your name?” the Drac said, eyes glinting. “I . . .” “Your name!” he roared, hot air slamming into Spike. “Daerev Quitu,” he whispered. “Louder!” the Drac said, standing tall, his shadow spreading over the glade. “Daerev Quitu!” he said, raising his head, as if in challenge. The Drac – Agyrt – nodded approvingly. “It is a good name, Daerev.” He simply nodded, not speaking. “Go now; tell your friends who you are. There is no other assignment this week.” Who he was. As he silently turned his back on his mentor, leaving the glade behind, he pondered those words. He had come here Spike, the youngling just beginning to understand the depths of his heritage, just grasping the edges of what lay before him. Leaving, he wasn’t sure who he was. Not Spike, certainly, not anymore. That soul had passed away, had metamorphosed. Spike was still a part of him, still accounted for the paths of his mind and desires of his soul. But he was more than Spike, was entering an entirely new world. Despite his blood, his draconic form and abilities, Spike had been a pony at heart. He thought like a pony, felt like a pony. He had no business with dragons. Daerev, however, was a dragon. He was living in a pony town, with pony friends, and an entire life outside of this new world, yes, but he was still a dragon. He did not reject Spike, he transcended him. Daerev Quitu—the Young Eternal—trudged through the forest, heading home to a library and a motherly sister. Briefly, the notion that they would not accept his change came to his mind, filling him with trepidation, but he dismissed it. He knew that they would support him, wherever he went, and he knew that even should they falter, he would go on. It was who he was.