//------------------------------// // Forty-Five // Story: The Moon Also Rises // by Nicroburst //------------------------------// You must follow in her footsteps. We could find no alternative then, and I see none now. Find the Well, Luna. There is no other way to oppose Typhus. You must do this quickly. If He reaches the Well before you, if this last sliver of hope dies, there will be nothing left for the world, nothing but a tortured existence, and a slow death. Forty-Five THE CIRCLE GLOWED with arcane light, azure and lavender meshing to create a deep hybrid, a dark blue, midnight, and reminiscent of nothing so much as Princess Luna. Panting, Trixie stood in the centre, her coat washed out by the glow, flickering light throwing crazed shadows on the stone walls and catching dirt, cracks, the odd cobweb, showing them in stark relief for snatches of a moment before they disappeared into the background once again. Trixie grunted, wiping her forehead with a hoof. She’d only handled energy like this once before—during her time with the Alicorn Amulet. That time, she’d been buffered by the artifact, caught up in the thrill, the sensation of power, and near out of her mind . . . This was nothing like that. Each strand, each twist of magic threatened to pull away from her. It had a mind of its own: the emotion infused in her magic was reflected in its desires. She’d tried this once before: the anger she’d summoned had quickly gotten out of her control, lashing out at everything around her. Control. That was the core of the brief lessons Twilight had been able to give her. When to lose control and when to maintain it. How to invest yourself with tremendous amounts of power without letting it go. How to be passionate, how to feel, with all the strength of your soul, to tremble against the shivers dancing on your skin, your bones, to quiver underneath the shadow of events so catastrophically gargantuan that you couldn’t speak, couldn’t think—just reacted, unable to process . . . how to create that sense of climax, artificially, and hold back from embracing that moment wholeheartedly. It was a shockingly detached view of memory and emotion, Trixie thought. Nonetheless, she couldn’t argue with results, and she gave no mind to the notion of challenging Twilight’s advice. Between the two, Trixie was far more inclined to trust the actual Sage than herself. This time, the magic was surrounding her. Hugging her body, vibrating, writhing. It carried a warmth and a sense of need—wrapping within itself again and again to create complex knots, ever-growing, layers upon layers . . . it left Trixie sweating, suffocating, with all her attention bent on forcing the magic away, to untangle, to obey. Twilight helped. Standing nearby, still within the circle, her magic had enveloped Trixie’s, gave it just enough freedom to push her, to force her to fight. A comforting safety net, one Trixie was grateful for. But not enough. Trixie knew the spell inside and out. It wasn’t particularly hard—most unicorns expected it to be fiendishly difficult, given its reputation. The truth was, teleportation required brute force more than skill. That was true when the magic jumped to your slightest thoughts. Now, Trixie could pull several threads free: work them loose from the bundle around her, feed power through the intricate symbology, and force upon them the appropriate intent . . . only to have others loose cohesion, fall back to the swirling mass. It was like trying to fill a sieve with water. “Try with less force,” Twilight said. She wasn’t sweating, not at all. Instead, the pale lavender surrounding her horn pulsed with gentle insistence. It would have been mocking if Trixie still thought herself Twilight’s equal. Grunting again, Trixie dropped roughly half the power. What remained wouldn’t be enough to accomplish the task—but she’d given up on that already. No, all she wanted now was a symbolic victory. A successful cast, even if it lacked the impetus to carry them all the way. Less magic meant less mass, and she found it easier to pull the magic away from her, to bend it to her will. Gradually, the spell took shape, supported by Twilight’s lavender, until she finally felt it slip into the strictures of the spell, and be bound by that intent. “Now,” Twilight said. “The frustration. Burn it all, right now. Feed yourself into it, don’t worry, I’m right here. Lose control now.” And it came easily. She’d had a short temper for a long time, and even with the years of moderation separating her from her past, Trixie found herself slipping back into that mindset with ease. It was comforting, in its own way. Anger, resentment, boiling frustration exploded forth, worked to a tempestuous climax in her mind, bubbling and frothing and roaring into the half-cast spell. Azure light stormed out from her, sweeping away the shadows, the lavender. It dominated, flashed to white . . . and was gone. The spell-casting room in the Agency’s Canterlot basement was gone. Replacing it was clear skies, snowy earth, and a bitingly-cold wind. Trixie stumbled, toppling sideways as energy abandoned her, only to be caught in Twilight’s telekinesis. “The Crystal Empire,” Twilight said. “Or near about. Well done, Trixie.” “I . . .” panting, “I did it,” she said. “Yes,” Twilight said. “Sleep now. I’ve got you.” Trixie shook her head. “No, no. It’s passing.” The fatigue was fading, each breath returning strength to her limbs, and soon enough she found herself back on all fours. Twilight looked concerned for a minute or two, but when it became clear Trixie wasn’t going to throw up or pass out, she became all business. A flash of lavender later, and they were standing in the atrium of the Crystal palace. Trixie’s target all along—she hadn’t the power to traverse all the distance. It didn’t stop her from feeling a surge of pride. She could feel the gradations in power between her spell and Twilight’s. Corroborated with the landscape they’d initially arrived in . . . she’d made it three-quarters, or further. More than a unicorn had any right to. Briefly, she remembered a phrase from what felt like a lifetime ago. “That’s what it takes, Trixie. Do the impossible,” and a grin played about her face. “Cadence,” Twilight was calling, trotting forward. “You here, Cadence?” Her voice rang amongst the hallways, bounding and rebounding, bits and pieces echoing back. In moments, palace guards found them. “Twilight Sparkle,” one said, apparently recognising her. “The Princess is in her chambers.” “Of course,” Twilight replied. “We don’t wish to bother her . . .” she trailed off. The guard was shaking his head. “For you, she won’t mind.” He led them through the halls, expertly navigating the sprawling web of corridors. Trixie found herself lost within just a few turns, the uniformity of the crystal rendering each hallway near-identical to the last, so that turns became spins and she could not say, even, which direction they had entered from: an almost dizzying sense of bewilderment engulfing her, like light scattered through the crystal. Thankfully, their journey was brief. The guard left them outside large double-doors, latched closed. When she tried to continue, however, Twilight threw up a hoof, blocking her path. “Wha-“ Trixie said, furrowing her brow. “Look,” Twilight said. “See the sheen?” Squinting, Trixie peered closer—at the slight gap between the doors, where Twilight was pointing. Sure enough, the tell-tale glimmer of magic shone there: sparkling pink, almost invisible. “Felt it,” Twilight said to Trixie’s unspoken question. “I’ve spent long enough around Cadance. I ought to be able to feel her magic.” Trixie just nodded. The spell itself she recognised as a standard sound-proofing—likely indicative of some state-secret meeting, or private moment occurring behind the doors. She sat back on her haunches, placing her back against the far wall. “Can we knock?” she asked, after a minute of silence. Pursing her lips, “I suppose so,” Twilight said. “I’d rather give her some more time though.” “Alright,” Trixie said, staring instead down the hallway. She’d never seen crystal architecture before. The almost mutable manner in which the light danced was fascinating, and she spent some time trying to discern a pattern to its movements. “Mesmerising,” Twilight said, her voice shattering Trixie’s reverie. Blushing slightly at the realisation she’d been tracing shapes with her head, Trixie nodded in agreement. “Twilight!” Jumping, Trixie swivelled to see the doors bounce off their hinges, swinging back in towards the pink princess that had thrown them out. Princess Cadance, still moving forward, caught Twilight up in her hooves, sweeping her forward with her momentum. “Cadance!” Twilight replied, squeezing back. “I- Oh, it’s good to see you.” “And this must be . . .” Twilight winced. “Ah, Trixie,” she said, eyes fixed on Cadance. “Meet my sister-in-law.” But instead of reaching forward, Trixie shrank away. At her name, she’d seen the dreadful recognition flit across the Princess’s face—the sudden intensity of her focus, the rage that threatened to boil over. Cadance stood stock still, trembling, her eyes fixed just above Trixie’s head, and to the left. And Trixie found herself awash in memory. Shining Armour, a topic she dreaded, a topic she spent considerable time avoiding. Distinct sounds, smells: strange little things that she never would have thought to pay attention to . . . those were what stuck with her, what hung between them now. A spectre, barring the way. Cadance spun, fled down the hallways, leaving Twilight in her wake, hoof half-raised. “Twilight,” another voice spoke up, tones hushed. Trixie turned back to the doors to see a pink head—no, she did recognise this one; Pinkie Pie, from Ponyville—poking through. Pinkie bit her lip. “Twilight,” she said again. “I’m . . . I’m really sorry.” Twilight just nodded dumbly, staring after Cadance. “Twilight . . . I think we need to talk,” Pinkie said. Twilight finally turned to see her, surprise registering as a small opening of the mouth, miming How? . . . “About Luna. I . . . I don’t think she’s well . . .” *** Fluttershy stepped forward, feeling the familiar crunch of sand shifting underneath her hooves. The air whistled as it blew past houses, buildings, wrapped about her legs and trunk, tickling at her feathers. Dry, arid, desolate. The train station, the post-office. The general store, the sheriff’s lockup. Appleloosa arranged itself before her, patterned out against the backdrop of the desert. The boundaries blurred, sand piling up in makeshift dunes against walls, spilling into the streets and abutting doors . . . like the town itself was being eaten, devoured, by the desert. Fluttershy resisted the urge to scream, to call out, to make noise—anything. The silence, all-encompassing, lent an itch to her coat, a sense of wrong . . . peering through windows, she saw belongings scattered on the floor, furniture broken and overturned, food rotting on tables with no chairs. Appleloosa was empty, abandoned, just as she’d Dreamt all those weeks earlier. Fluttershy tossed her head, lips curling back over her teeth. It couldn’t have all been for nothing. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She spun, galloping out of the town’s remains and into the desert, heading north. Moments later she was surrounded by ponies. Ghostly apparitions, in various stages of their lives—oftentimes the same figure overlayed with itself, three, four, five times, identified by the same clothing, the same hat, or other moniker, in various stages of disrepair. She stumbled forward, passing through the crowd, a surging ocean of mirages, rising and falling back into the sand with each step. Too fast, too far. She stopped, fought to bring her breathing under control, until the desert lay still once more. “Macoun!” She remembered that voice, that name. The father, gaunt and weary, chasing after his son. “Macoun, there ya are. Come, son, we must help the others.” “Do we gotta?” “Ya know we do. An Apple’s work ain’t ever done.” “But Dad . . .” “No buts! Come, Macoun. Look to ya name with pride, for you are the last to wear it. Ah will not live ta see out matron all . . .“ Fluttershy tuned him out. She’d heard the speech before, seen this scene before. She spun, scanning the raggard camp, wagons hitched to ponies clad in scraps of cloth, torn hats unable to properly shelter them from the heat. Holes were scattered in the baked clay, ranging in a semi-circle on the outskirts, damp earth collecting at the bottom of the makeshift wells. There it was. Placed just so, facing half-away from the campfires, the tents. The chair, creaking as the wind caused it to rock ever so slightly, looked towards the dying sun. Fluttershy caught her breath, taking a step towards it. She remembered Applejack here. Her friend, aged beyond belief. Staring out at the wasteland that had become her home, sipping thin broth. An example of what lay ahead. Fluttershy woke, sweat drenching her bedding. With an odd sense of déjà vu, she rose, peered through a gap in the curtains to see the first glimmers of the sun poking over the horizon. Empty. The chair had been empty. Taking a deep breath, she stumbled to the door, found her way to the bathroom. A cold shower later, she walked down the stairs, seeking . . . something. “Fluttershy! You’re up early,” Applejack said cheerfully, tossing a pancake over in the pan. It hissed at her, spitting butter, a gentle crackle. Fluttershy smiled, taking a seat at the table, and just watched as Applejack finished their breakfast. More than the company, it was the sights and smells and sounds of motion that she revelled in: observing Applejack’s practiced grace—each pancake the same size, the same shape—listening to the sizzle and the knife, dicing apple, breathing in the cinnamon and sugar, dusting and draping, syrup pooling around the base of the stack . . . she lifted a knife in her wing, cut a small piece, savoured the sweet fluffiness. Light pooled in the kitchen, casting everything in rosy sunrise. Applejack chewed loudly, large bites more than she ought to take at once, syrup running down her chin. The house itself creaked, relaying movement, life, from elsewhere. “So,” Applejack said, serving herself a fifth and covering it in apple pieces. “So,” Fluttershy agreed, ducking her head. “I . . .” she bit her lip. “That bad?” “The same Dream,” she whispered. “Sorry, hun, what was that?” “It was the same Dream,” Fluttershy said. She cast her gaze to the side. “Everything . . . exactly the same. Like we’d never left Ponyville at all.” Applejack’s chewing slowed. “Except . . . except you weren’t there.” That raised an eyebrow. “Meanin’ I was the first time? ‘Shy, you got something ta tell me?” “Umm . . . “ “Fluttershy.” A hoof reached across the table to rest on her shoulder. “Ah ain’t mad. You know that.” “I know. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I don’t know! We missed . . . something, something happened, something we looked over, failed to . . . Failed!” She drew a shuddering breath. “A-and all those . . . Applejack, I, I can’t . . .” “Hey, hey.” Applejack stood, moved around the table to envelop Fluttershy in a deep hug. “It’s going to be alright. We stopped that other Dream, didn’t we? In the Forest?” “H-” hitching, “How'd you know about that,” Fluttershy said, sniffing. Applejack chuckled, the movement rippling across to Fluttershy. “You think Ah can’t tell when a friend’s worried? Beyond what Ah might expect, anyway.” Fluttershy hummed, squeezing Applejack, before pulling away. “I thought we weren’t going to make it in time. You . . . you were lost in the storm.” Nodding, “But we did make it. We stopped the storm.” “Y-Yes,” Fluttershy said, gulping. “But what if we didn’t. I-if it’s still waiting for me.” Ah need you. It echoed in her mind, still. Desperate, despairing, desolate. “What if it isn’t,” Applejack said. “Look, why don’tcha walk me through it. See if we can’t work something out.” “Okay,” Fluttershy said. “Okay. The . . . the tribe. The Apples.” “I remember.” “You were with them. Old . . . so very old. Watching over them.” “Fifty years?” Fluttershy shook her head. “More like eighty. At least.” Her voice gained strength as she spoke. “The town looked like it was just deserted. As if they’d only then been driven out.” Applejack whistled. “Unrelated, then. To what we just stopped.” Fluttershy nodded. “But we changed something.” “Everything was the same, AJ. Except for you. You were just . . . gone.” Applejack’s eyes widened. “You don’t think we failed. You think we’re going to fail.” “It’s already happened,” Fluttershy whispered. “Don’t you see?” Applejack sat in silence for some time, only occasionally meeting Fluttershy’s eyes. Eventually, “Ah think we need to let the others know. Let everypony know.” “We can’t leave,” Fluttershy said. “We just can’t take that risk.” “But we can send a letter. Or another in our stead.” A pause. “Of course we can,” Fluttershy breathed. The light, creeping along the table as the sun continued its morning ascent, touched the side of her forearm. “Of course we can!” “Can what?” She turned to see Applebloom, mane and fur damp from the shower trot into the kitchen. She took a deep sniff, grinning at her sister before claiming a few remaining pancakes for herself. “How’ve you been, ‘sis,” Applejack said, reaching forward to tussle Applebloom’s hair. She received only a grunt in return. “We can send a message,” Fluttershy said, clarifying. “O-or, Pinkie!” Applebloom shook her head. “She left with Daerev. Like, over a week ago. Hey, how’s Braeburn? You two work out whatever was going on down there?” “Yeah, more or less,” Applejack said, with a smile. “Braeburn’s doing fine. Fluttershy here even helped him some with that leg o’ his.” “Wow, really? That’s great! He must be feelin’ fantastic, right about now.” Fluttershy stood abruptly, bumping the table and causing the plates to clatter. “Yes. Great. Nice to see you, Applebloom, but I really must go . . . go and send a letter. Yes, a letter. Umm, bye.” She fled, taking to the air not three steps out the front door—confused shouts chasing her up into the empty sky. *** Princess Celestia lowered her quill to her desk, relaxing back into her chair with a long sigh. Large stacks of paper, arrayed in neat rows, blocked her view of the city below. She snorted, ruffling her feathers, and stood, beginning to pace around the room. Every hour or so, she took a small break, enough only to relax her eyes and her spine, to warm her limbs and rest her horn and give some impetus to the blood pumping around her system. Important, this, a regular dose of vitality in the midst of work somehow challenging and dull simultaneously. Canterlot below glimmered. The setting sun winked at her, peeking over the rooftops and between the towers of her city. The restorations were nearly complete, work becoming swifter as it went. So hesitant to touch that site, at first. She remembered the work crews, foreman shrinking back from her, reluctant to meet her gaze. She hadn’t raised them to be so timid, not when addressed directly. And it wasn’t just her they shied away from. The site itself, the hole in the ground, in the street . . . it received nothing short of veneration. Flowers were arranged daily around its rim. Ponies from neighbouring districts and towns made pilgrimage to see it for themselves. Nearby stalls appeared, selling eye-witness accounts, interviews. For those with an ear to bend, more crackpot theories. Spiralling back into Canterlot proper, there were nights of mourning, memorabilia, discussion groups and circles, public forums. She’d personally dealt with altercations springing up from a myriad of events—parties, performances, simple open mic nights—overtaken by the rumour mill. So quickly, it became folklore. Mythic. It was, after all, a Godly thing to do, to think about. Something beyond common, beyond normal. She couldn’t have left them like that. Celestia nodded, turning again as she came to a wall. She couldn’t have left them like that. They got carried away, they did, and were liable to escalate . . . well, everything. She’d seen it happen. She turned back to her desk. Routine and repetition had long ingrained in her an instinctual assessment of the work ahead, and at a glance she could see the documents awaiting attention were rapidly running out. She made a face. It was better now. Under control. The funeral had gone smoothly, as had the nightly commemorations, a period of mourning lasting a full month. She’d gone all-out, wrapped everything in a veil of pomp, intricate designs and elaborate decorations, lavish banquets, moving speeches. Constant distraction, that was the name of the game, and—if she was honest with herself—an attempt to trump the murder itself. She shook her head violently, her mane billowing left and right. The next most pressing item on her agenda was . . . she squinted, focusing on the text . . . yes, she was reading that correctly: “A Proposal to Re-Source the Acquisition of Materials for the ReConstruction of Lower Canterlot: Shattered Hill is Happy to Help!” Celestia’s head tipped forward, hitting the desk with a dull thud. Construction was nearly complete, they already had all the material they’d need. Why was this on her desk? Ugh. It didn’t matter. Absent-mindedly, she took the proposal and dropped it in the rejected pile. Perhaps . . . perhaps this was enough. Her eyes drifted traitorously back towards the desk. No, really. Even she had to admit that there wasn’t much more she could do to smooth the process out. It had all been . . . well. As well as she could have hoped for, truth be told. Princess Celestia lit her horn, took a moment to lift her posture, shift into the regal stance. She rolled her head on her neck and adjusted her wings. Then the golden light around her horn spread down, enveloped her, and without so much as disturbing the loose leaf lying around the room, she was gone. North, to the Crystal Empire. As much as she debated, she gave thought to Luna’s words, and Twilight’s. It gladdened her heart to hear of her niece’s slow recovery, but it also hurt. To know that she could have done more. Well. Maybe this was just that. Celestia, doing more. *** The Crystal Heart sparkled underneath his hoof. Grimacing, Boundless pressed down, summoning telekinetic magic from his horn to envelope the Heart, adding his magic to his physical strength. The table upon which the Heart rested creaked, a long, slow, drawn-out wail as wood began to split, and then gave all at once, splintering under the pressure. He stepped back, shaking his head. Force wasn’t an answer, either. The Heart had remained entirely unresponsive—not so much as a glimmer interrupted the pattern of light playing out within it. He’d tried just about everything he could think of: long since past attempting to even use the damn thing, now he was just trying to have it acknowledge him. Even frustration, however, eventually gave out, and Boundless found himself slumped in a chair, leaning forward with his head in his hooves. Ever since he’d returned with the Heart, he’d found the place hollow. Noise echoed around the rooms—wood scraping on wood, his own laboured grunts, even the crackling fire only accentuated the strange emptiness of the space around him. Not even in the forest outside Hornwall compared. It became like an itch on his skin, a rubbing, nagging thing. It demanded his attention. He knew, of course, the demon behind the door. Boundless stood abruptly, pushing the chair back so that it toppled onto the floor. He slowly sucked in a lungful of air. Then, he screamed. Loud and violent. The sound ripped through the air, took the silence that wrapped around him and beat it back, slashing and tearing and bludgeoning it into submission. A shrill tone that spilled out onto the streets. With his heart in his throat, he spun, and smashed magic down onto the Crystal Heart. He lifted it into the air, held it aloft in his brown aura, directed his gaze and his voice and his passion towards it. He flung it against the wall, and, running forward, smashed his body against it, pinning it close to his breast. He panted, and grabbed at his head. The Heart sparkled, and hummed unabated. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything with it—of course he couldn’t. He’d never thought he could, not really, not where it mattered. It had nothing to do with race, with some mystical connection to the artifact. It was him. The reverberating echo of his outpouring taunted him. He stepped back, rubbing the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the impact, and the Heart hit the ground with a clunk. Even to his ears, he rang hollow. It was about choices. He saw: he’d always seen. Just . . . in the distance, shrouded in fog, or space, or time. Well, it was here now, and no more delay. A fork in the road. Easier to boss everypony around. To put on airs, to indulge. To search. To destroy. And for the first time in years, Boundless didn’t know what he was going to do next. Gritting his teeth, he punched the wall—just hard enough to hurt. He swung away, pacing around the small room, skirting the fire-pit, its embers still glowing. He ought to be cold, shivering. Instead, he began spitting out words, talking to escape the never-ending silence more than anything else. “Stupid Heart. Don’t even need it, anyway. Dunno what I was thinking, coming here . . . What a waste of time. Idiot.” He shook his head violently, snarling, lit his horn and blew down the connecting wall his crew had trapped him behind. Bastards. The explosion echoed, carried, of course—he was vaguely aware of the impetus to move, now, the impending doom. The authorities wouldn’t care about the odd scream, not here, but the deafening suddenness of an explosion would draw attention. “Useless. Probably laughing their flanks off in some bar. Bucking morons!” He spun around, grabbed the Crystal Heart, and flung it against the floor. It bounced once, twice, rolling along its long edge to clink against a table leg. Sparkling. He could feel a scream building inside his chest. Tumbling over itself, each moment adding a little more to the crescendo. He snorted, hot air jetting from his nostrils, and, the Heart wrapped in telekinesis, trotted outside. Early morning in the Crystal Empire. The sun was rising over the eastern mountains, creating a shimmering rainbow hovering a few feet over any crystal surfaces it touched. Similar to heat waves, over a desert. Two days he’d hidden here, bashing his head against a literal rock. “Thought I could do something,” he grumbled, walking away. “What a joke. Oh, Boundless, so special! What a gift you have.” He made no attempt at subtlety. He’d never been any good at that, anyway. So occasionally ponies—collecting the paper, out for a stroll, opening curtains, blinds—saw him. They saw the Crystal Heart. Spilled out of their homes. Congregated behind him, a procession, a pilgrimage. He stopped, whirled on them. “What do you want?! Well, come on! Come and take it!” raising the Heart high in the air. “What’s the problem?! What’s the bucking matter?!” They looked away, looked down, scuffed their hooves. The distance between them seemed, to Boundless’ eyes, to stretch, twenty feet becoming forty becoming four hundred. He knew the look on their faces, knew it intimately, recognised the smell in the air. He’d been looking at them his entire life. It was a different scream that came to him now. A pulsing one, pushing at his ribcage, his throat. He swallowed, and kept walking. Time to choose. No more running, hiding, pretending to have a plan. He’d managed to fool even himself. But time was the great revealer, the bringer of truth. All deceptions faded, in time. All lies brought to light. Well, here was his truth. He didn’t know what the buck he was doing. He just . . . did things, to see what would happen. To try to coax out some sort of response, some sort of feeling. As he saw it, four paths lay open. The serpent that had aided him, promised him further aid, vague answers and a veil of mystery—that creature had utterly failed to understand him. He found no desire to return, to hoof over the Crystal Heart like an obedient servant, awaiting his reward. Luna—Nightmare Moon—claimed kinship. She had allowed him to escape with the Heart, clearly in the knowledge of his own inability to use it. It was patronising: an adult indulging a child. And when he was done, to return his toys to their box, to be tucked in to bed, and fed a warm story to help him sleep. Was that what he wanted? To sleep? He could leave the Crystal Heart here. Just drop it, on the side of the street. It might provoke the crowd still following his every step, but they didn’t pose much threat to him. He could disappear, just . . . just stop, entirely. Find a hobby. Meet interesting ponies. Try to learn something. No grand purpose, but the notion caught him with its promise of wistful nostalgia, a bittersweet acknowledgement of failure. He could find contentment in mediocrity. And then, that wasn’t the only way to simply . . . end this, either. Boundless looked up. The palace loomed above him. The crowd watched him with bated breath, halting on the perimeter of the plaza where the Crystal Heart had been displayed. He made his slow way to the centre, to the pedestal, and sat down. The Heart rested on the ground by his flank. He yawned, and scratched behind an ear, gazing out. “Hey, could one of you get me something to eat? I’m bucking starving.”