//------------------------------//
// Forty-Eight 
// Story: The Moon Also Rises 
// by Nicroburst 
//------------------------------//

	Hatred is often misunderstood. Once, we both knew it as love. I pray you remember that. Should you ever wish more of me, you have only to reach out. Tartarus itself could not keep me from you.

I’m sorry, Luna, for everything that has befallen us. Everything that will befall us, should my plans come to fruition. And . . . farewell.


Forty-Eight


TENSION. Everyone still, taut, a spring teetering on the brink of release. Boundless stared at Luna, waiting. One line yet to cross. One boundary he still hadn’t broken.

Emotions tumbled through Luna like a waterfall, intermingling until she couldn’t tell what was what, underneath the terrible intensity, the all-powerful rush. Savagely, she reined herself in, held the magic at bay. 

“The Crystal Heart connects to its user, and from them to others,” Luna said. She observed her words almost impartially, heard them as cold, clinical, dry. “Sages, like Twilight, Trixie, or my sister. Natives of the Empire, like Cadence. They can amplify a signal, send it outwards.”

“I will not,” Cadence spat. She burned, her pink fur almost incandescent, shimmering in the sun.

“Lulu,” Celestia was whispering. “Must you? I . . . I don’t think I can do this again . . .”

But Pinkie was leaping about, now, spitting out balloons and streamers and reasons to live as if they were curses, hurling them at Boundless like physical weapons, and Twilight’s head was bowed, Trixie now by her side, listening intently, and Daerev had moved forward, not quite daring to intercept Cadence’s line of sight to Boundless, and Boundless himself had squared his shoulders, a line of blood running from the side of his throat where his magic clenched itself . . .

Conflict and desperation. A future she could see, so clearly, laid out for Equestria. Had Seen, in her visions of his victims and disciples. She could not fool herself about this. Thousands would surely die. Thousands more—tens of thousands—would find themselves out of homes, on the streets, refugees in their own country. Upheaval, sudden and cataclysmic. That is what she risked. What she paid.

Did she not believe? In the goodness inherent, in the inner light? That when offered the choice, they would choose to repudiate it, to turn away, and that that was something more beautiful, more righteous than any shackle? That in the unfeeling, implacable march of Nature, it was in Life that one found light?

And what of the Veil? Set aside Nightmare Moon. Set aside the murmurs and doubts. More than just a prohibition on murder, more than a moral prison, it had shaped memories and imposed limits. What if she didn’t destroy it. What if it persisted, millennium in the future?

Luna had no difficulty imaging that scenario at all. That was the problem, really. She knew how she had acted, spoken, prior to Moon’s Fall. She knew how society had functioned.

The differences—between that of a thousand years ago, and right now—were minimal. Modes of address, language, had been . . . modernised. Recently, there had been some small technological advances. They certainly hadn’t had trains back in the day. Those—to be honest, largely the result of policies Luna had implemented. Even the University of Canterlot emphasised scholarship and philosophy over science, preferring to spend time in circular debate of age-old texts than to develop curiosity, talent, hope . . .

They hadn’t even expanded all across Equestria. Appleloosa was proof enough of that. A thousand years. How the population hadn’t exploded beyond control, what with the reduced death rates, escaped Luna. Eventually, it would. Eventually, there would be nothing left for ponies.

Breaking past the Veil—past this fear of death—was more than inevitable, it was necessary. It had to happen. For future generations. For the advancement, at long last, of a stagnating culture, brought low not by ill-will or dissenting opinion but by their lack.

She knew she was being quick to judge. She knew the evidence, the truth, lay buried in centuries of census data, in documentation of scientific growth, in records and histories meticulously stored in Canterlot. She also knew what she would find there. She could feel it, in her gut, her heart, her head. And how could she believe that there wasn’t something better, out there? To do so was anathema to her being, to the idea of movement, change, growth. Were Equestria the zenith, then . . . then there would be no more reason to strive.

That was the moment Luna gave up on the idea of a utopia.

“Luna,” Celestia was moving towards her, her face torn, tears running freely across her cheeks. “Please, Lulu . . .”

“You don’t even know yourself,” Luna said, reaching out to embrace Celestia. “You can’t even say . . .”

“I’m . . .”

They clung to each other.


***


Trixie had her head tucked in to her chest, eyes firmly fixed on the ground at her hooves, attention focused on Twilight.

“-and it took me years just to come to terms with that. I can’t possibly imagine what you must have gone through—with Brash, and Cumulus, on top of everything else! But the two of us, more than anypony else—we know, don’t we? We know what it is, to have your mind invaded. To have it raped.

“You showed me that it doesn’t take a chain to tell right from wrong. You showed me that by disagreeing with me, Trixie!”

“I remember,” Trixie said, her mouth dry.

“You’ve seen what’s outside. I’ve seen it, glimpsed it, through you. Inoculated myself with it—yes,” to Trixie’s shocked glance, “yes, when you felt my pain. It goes both ways. It’s empathy. That’s what brought you back, wasn’t it? Not some foisted set of principles, such as I had imagined—no, you’d already surpassed that sort of imposition—no, it was shared pain.”

“Yes,” Trixie said, trembling.

“And Hornwall,” Twilight said, her voice choking for a second, eyes pressed shut. “Hornwall, where there was so much misery. What did they need? The . . . the victims of his process?”

“One and the same,” Trixie said. “Or, at the least, that’s what you want me to say. That they could have rejoined society—could have surpassed even their own emancipation—if only they were given empathy, as well, in that terrible, terrible moment.”

“You don’t believe that?” Twilight sounded surprised. “I thought . . .”

“Let me guess,” Trixie said. No small amount of anger was rising in her, now, a stinging, despairing rage at the mantle she could feel settling onto her shoulders, that Twilight draped over her with words of desperation and strength. Why me? she mocked herself, inwardly turned snark belying the pit in her stomach, the tremble in her legs. I never wanted this. “You want me to be the one to provide that. Twilight, really? I- I know you feel strongly about this, but . . . of all ponies, you?”

“I’m sorry,” Twilight said, because of course she did. Always sorry, that was Twilight. No, that isn’t true, and you know it. “I don’t want everything to be in vain.”

“Then we must throw the good after the bad?” Trixie looked up.

But Twilight was shaking her head, smiling gently. “You don’t believe that,” she said. “Of all of us, Trixie, you’re the one with perspective. You’re the one who has seen both sides. The only one not plagued by doubt. Look around you.”

She did. Stillness, inside the swirling haze of Luna’s containment spell. But where Boundless stood threatening his own life—fuming, she could see, in the tension running through his legs, his jaw, and scared—he was largely ignored. Luna and Celestia conferred, close together, almost . . . now hugging. Pinkie, giving up on her explosive antics, her unbridled energy turned to unbearable anticipation, watched Daerev, who in turn watched Cadence. Stillness.

“I see it,” Trixie said.

“I think about the forces gathered here,” Twilight said, “and I tremble. And part of me thinks that the Veil is the only reason this confrontation hasn’t erupted yet. The only reason.”

“Must it be me, Twilight?” Trixie asked, desperately meeting Twilight’s gaze.

“You’re smart, Trixie,” was the reply. “I . . . don’t think I have to reiterate this again, not truly. But, for you: if it really is the only reason, the sole reason . . . then we’re already doomed.”

“You hold us to a . . . a . . . a galactic standard,” Trixie cried. “I don’t know if I’m—if we’re strong enough.”

“It’s not about good and bad. It’s not even about murder, or the right to it. It’s so much more than that, Trixie. And you’re the centre—the hopeful, despairing centre. Celestia won’t bend on this. I’ve gone back and forth with her, and still I shudder at the thought of . . . of circumventing her will. But if I could . . . temper the blow, if there’s nothing left but to make its impact as soft as possible, I will. Cadence isn’t going to do anything that might help him. For all her rage, her helpless anger. I can . . . I’ve used the Heart before. Just . . . just once. I could give them hope. But you, you can give them understanding.”

And Trixie, using a reflex she’d barely begun to understand, reached forward, into Twilight’s mind.

The landscape spilled out around here, a wide plain, gentle breeze brushing over long grass, a deep lavender sky arching overhead, clear, save for a single, white cloud, rainbow tail hanging from the side. Rows of houses sprang up, visualisations only, yet each detailed, unique. One with whitewashed walls, studded with diamonds. One wrapped with vines, sprouting the sweetest scented flowers. One a solid wooden structure, squat, with new layers built above seemingly at random, overhanging the porch or twisting up into a spire of an attic. One made of gingerbread. One a vaulting home, walls nigh transparent, reflecting the lavender light through every room. One boxed in by non-existent homes of either side, built carefully, and at a budget. One built into a tree. One built of marble.

On and on and on. To some, Trixie could give names. Others, moments of Twilight’s past—of her present—that escaped her.

“Everypony was surprised, you know,” Twilight said.

Trixie started. Of course Twilight could reach her here. Even so, the disruption to the tranquillity of the scene caught her by surprise. And such a contrast to the scene outside. Twilight never failed to amaze her. To see such desperation in her face, hear it in the strain in her voice—and then to come here, to the inner sanctum itself, and see . . . peace. A collected calm, not devoid of energy, but directed, purposeful. Organised.

“What?”

“When Rainbow and I got together.”

Non-sequitur aside, “It doesn’t seem so strange to me,” Trixie said. She’d seen them together, seen how they played off each other. The little things, the details. In-jokes, small gestures, like a well-oiled machine.

Twilight laughed. “Well, we’ve gotten better. At first, though . . .”

“You fought?”

“Yes and no. The occasional row, yes. Of course. But . . .” she trailed off, looking up wistfully. The tail flickered, disappeared, and in moments Rainbow Dash glided down from her perch, to land in front of them. Eyes fixed on Twilight. Every facet of her image shining. Every tooth squared, bleached white, every feather gleaming, all four hooves trimmed and shod.

And then Rainbow grinned, sheepishly, turning her gaze to the side, and raised a hoof to rub at the back of her neck. “Hey, Twi’, sorry, I was up late last night, and I kinda lost track of time . . .”

And Twilight laughed, delightedly, reaching forward to pull Rainbow in a hug, nuzzling at her cheek.

“That was from our first date. Even then I was laughing,” Twilight said, face still buried in Rainbow’s neck. She lifted her muzzle for a moment. “Annoyed, to be sure, but laughing. It’s more than empathy, it’s understanding. It’s knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we’re not alone.”

The village dissolved. Rainbow faded into the air. In its place rose great trees, bursting from the earth around them. Vines, shrubs, undergrowth materialised. The earth was chiselled away, and from the side came a great rush of water, speeding past them to fill in the sudden channel. The Everfree, Trixie recognised, though the river wasn’t known to her.

“This,” Twilight said, “is the Lethe. It’s what introduced me to Coromancy—sort of. It can take away your memories, trap your mind within it.”

“Okay . . .” Trixie said, staring down into the waters.

“Years ago, Rainbow and I were both trapped within it, at the same time. And try as we could, we weren’t strong enough to remain separate. We . . . we bled together. No memories held back. No thoughts hidden away.”

And suddenly Trixie got it, in a sweeping rush of intuition. Understanding. Knowledge of another, breeding into love. Into acceptance. Into peace.

This is what Twilight was trying to convey. The message she was to send, through the Crystal Heart. The hope into which everything that Twilight was placed everything, the future of the world.

No, more than that. Trixie stumbled back, away from Twilight, falling back into reality. The Veil took even that away from her. Reduced her relationships, her knowledge, her existence, to a construct placed onto her.

Stillness. And in it now Trixie read not individualised doubt, but a deathly, deadly survival instinct, a horrifyingly powerful measure of control, imposed in goodwill but imposed nonetheless.

Was this Boundless’ freedom?

Twilight smiled at her. Trixie nodded back.

And then she lit her horn, reached for her outrage, and split herself into a hundred, identical copies.


***


Boundless hated the murmurs. Quiet words between groups, stand-offs, waiting. Always, always waiting.

Was this not the climax of his life? The singular moment into which he could pour himself, everything that he was, and see it crystallised? See purpose, tangible and real, materialise before him, like Fate itself. He had been waiting sixteen years for this, this Moment, and now that it was here, he found himself ignored, cast aside—as the cast before him took turns discussing their personal foibles.

He felt the thin trickle of blood run over his shoulder as his magic trembled against his neck, and the wild surge of excitement that came with it. One line yet to cross: and the last time he’d thought of it, it was discarded for no more reason than curiosity. An insane giggle bubbled up in his chest. He felt almost divorced from the world, adrift in his own mind some distance from his own body. Detached.

The pink one had stopped annoying him, at least, recognising the futility of appealing to his hope, to the better moments of his life. Joy was individual, he wanted to snarl at her, and not so easily reduced to rubber and thin, coloured paper. Who was she, to claim that she could replace this, here, this Moment, whose implications dwarfed even the celestial Alicorns before him.

He let the giggle out. He had three princesses here, even. Finally, Equestria was paying attention.

Except . . . they weren’t. Obsessed not with him but with the gift he offered. The knife dug a little deeper, and a rictus spread over his muzzle. He began to hop, ever so slightly, on the spot.

Waiting for something—for somepony to make a decision, finally, off the back of some internal realisation. Except they couldn’t, not really, for all their big words and high-minded ideals, it was here, at the final hurdle, that they failed. Impossible, to fully commit, always with the nugget of doubt in the back of their minds. The potential for a mistake was too high.

Freedom and danger, security and safety, and over it all the spectre of this threat, this coming Typhus. Of him Boundless knew nothing, and cared less.

He turned, at last, to Trixie—to the first and greatest of his Disciples—in hope, and to his delight, she trembled, and then split.

Out of nowhere, Trixies appeared, copies filling up all the space within Luna’s veil and more besides. All speaking, moving, casting spells of light and noise. The sudden cacophony drenched the plaza, cut through the murmurs. He could see nothing but the pale blue of her coat—feel nothing but her fur against his. He sucked in a breath, and paused, wondering . . . illusions, of course. Trixie’s speciality.

A roar crashed over the top of the crowd, vibrant green dragonfire spilling forth and ripping through the illusions in great swathes, leaving Pinkie untouched, blinking, in the midst of the broken magic. An incandescent radiance grew rapidly from—he could only assume—Celestia, an aura that had a similar effect. A scalding pink blast caught him on the chest, pooling over him, seemingly undeterred by the illusions it was passing through. Abruptly, something shoved him aside. He stumbled, regained his footing. And then the midnight mist, swirling as if they were standing in the eye of the storm, collapsed—not falling to the ground, or dissolving into the air, but rushing inwards, sweeping past bodies. He shook his head once, twice, recounted before assuring himself that only one Trixie remained. He glanced down at the Crystal Heart in his hoof.

Trixie herself was watching Cadence—who, of all things, also held a Crystal Heart. Boundless groaned, intuiting the plan, such as it was. How long to spot the fake? It couldn’t be more than seconds. The dragon hadn’t noticed, in the confusion. Neither had the pink pony. But Twilight, ah, now he wouldn’t put it past her to have caught on as well, and she was staring at him, openly, a slight frown on her face. Some few citizens of the Empire remained outside the plaza, watching—eyes wide, now, and raising off the ground to move forward—let them have their show. But Celestia wasn’t looking at Trixie, or him. And when he glanced back, followed her gaze, he saw why.

The mist hadn’t gone away at all. Instead, collecting against Luna’s skin, it solidified, taking on material form, growing denser and denser, until its surface shone with reflected radiance. Metal, sweeping over her head, down the back of her neck. Covering her chest, emblazoned with the same crescent moon that featured in her cutie mark. Tall shoes, climbing near halfway up her legs. Terrible, terrifying, the raiment of Nightmare Moon once again.

His eyes flickered to hers, noting the round pupil, the flat teeth in her mouth. He wasn’t sure what he felt.

She raised one hoof and was met with a wall of light. Staggering, driven back, she took a moment to mount any defence, and then shattered the wall with a spear of argence, blazing, burning.

“Luna!” Mixed voices, all crying out at once. The citizens—the remaining ones, anyway—fled, screaming. She snarled, leaping forward. Celestia rose to her hind legs, pawed at the air, essence of the sun gathered into a blindingly bright point at the tip of her horn. A hoof hit his side. Trixie, as he turned to her.

“Now,” she whispered, fiercely smacking him again. “We’ve got to do it now.”

“Can you?” he asked, lifting the Crystal Heart towards her.

Cadence cried out, the Heart in her possession dissolving.

“Y-yes,” Trixie said, and she sounded confident, for all the stutter. “I think so.”

Luna collided with her sister. A vast shockwave, titanic enough to rock the palace above them, took his hooves from under him. The pink pony—”Pinkie!” called Twilight—swept through, running through the tremor as if it were a paved path, collected the Heart from Trixie. The dragon leapt forward, his wings keeping him upright, to join Trixie and Boundless, only to wring his claws, uncertain or unable.

“You mustn’t!” Pinkie called back. “Mustn’t!”

But Luna—wait, what? Luna had locked her horn against Celestia’s, magic enough pulsing between them to vaporise anypony foolish enough to breach it, and step by step, against all legend, all folklore, was driving her sister back. Wasn’t Celestia the stronger of the two? Or was it merely the mantle of Nightmare Moon, granting Luna some mystical strength?

“Twilight!” Celestia called, not daring to take her eyes from Luna. “Twilight, stop him!”

“This will happen, sister,” Luna spat, “whether you will it or not. You can’t deny me twice!”

“Lulu, please, stop,” Celestia said. “You’re giving in to it. You’re letting it win!”

“There’s nothing to win here,” Luna said. “Nothing to lose. There only is.”

Trixie had disappeared. Bolts of azure light flew through the air, chasing after a pink blur that apparently had no need to obey physics, sliding across the ground, running up walls, moving in short bursts of speed, and dodging with preternatural awareness. Twilight looked left, then right, torn. Celestia was driven back another foot, grunting with effort. “I can’t hold her!” A telekinetic field formed around Boundless’ throat, lifting him up. He choked, struggled for a moment, before lashing out with his Talent and breaking the hold. He dropped to his hooves, panting, saw Cadence charging at him.

“Agyrt told you . . .” he gasped, “to help me . . .”

Cadence hit him hard, landed on top of him, grinding him back against the ground. “You aren’t getting away from me,” she hissed.

“Then . . . do it,” he said. She spat on his face. He struggled, pushing, pulling, twisting his torso and scrabbling for purchase with the edges of his hooves, with his magic, to no avail. He could not match strengths against an Alicorn, for all his Passion. The ability to break through restraints, to tear down walls, to remain uncaged. His lungs began to burn, one of her forelegs digging against his throat. He bucked, throwing his head back, wide eyes passing over her glare uncomprehending.

Lavender magic washed over him, mixed with green dragonfire. Lukewarm, flickering, alive. The pressure eased, and he rolled onto his side, gasping for air. Cadence, from the corner of his eye, stood still, similarly gasping—though why, he couldn’t guess. “Here,” a claw grabbed his shoulder, dug into the flesh, deep enough to draw blood and a curse, hauled him upright. Trixie was nowhere to be seen, nor was the pink one. Twilight—ignoring him, now, advancing on the confrontation between the two Royal Sisters. The dragon, at his side, staring at Princess Cadence.

“I know, alright?” he was saying—snarling, really. “Like you’ve lost something that can never be replaced. Never undone. But replacing Shining Armour with,” a talon pointing to his side, pointing to Boundless, “this, is . . . it’s beneath you. It’s unworthy.”

Boundless caught himself, drew himself upright, felt a sardonic smile grace his face. Celestia, his shoulder hurt.

“Look at you,” Cadence said. “Coming to his aid like a dog with a master. Is this what you wanted, Spike? Growing up, dreaming of dragons!”

But he was shaking his head, and trembling, and standing his ground. “I will not kill. That’s what I said. He made it seem so simple, though. One small step at a time. First a new name. Daerev Quitu. What a joke. And then dragonfire—my heritage, my birthright. I needed to learn control. Look!” Now reaching forward, grabbing at Cadence’s face, turning her towards the others.

Celestia and Twilight, side by side, blazing with puissance. Gold and purple, layered and intermingling, creating a grand stream of magical energy that washed over the deepest black—a hole in reality, it appeared, absorbing everything that was thrown at it, even as magic ran over its edges to pool on the ground, burning inches through the cobblestone. Inside, Luna, somehow, standing against firm against arguably the two greatest magical threats in the entirety of Equestria, no longer advancing on her sister, but holding her ground. Boundless felt awe spread through him, felt a strange swelling of pride.

“Look at her!” Daerev said. “At least Celestia and Luna act for themselves. Twilight isn’t on Celestia’s side, here! No, but she made a promise. She holds out faith. There’s no danger in that fight. No risk of death, or even injury to anything but pride. Can you understand that, then, the relationship between master and student?!”

Cadence ripped away from him, took several long steps away, keeping him to her side.

“That’s what happened to me,” Daerev said. “Agyrt stripped Spike away a long time ago. Left a puppet, strung up on strings of respect and discipline. How could I break away, knowing that he had defined for me the world—had given me all the tools to which I understood myself!”

But Cadence was striding away, walking towards the ongoing conflict. Daerev let out a groan, dragonfire licking the air, and slumped back. Boundless regarded him curiously. Odd, this one. Talking like Twilight, or Luna, even, of his own life in the abstract. Always in the frame of logic, of chains of argument. In Hornwall, he had seemed an implacable threat, an impossibility hellbent on bringing him down. Yet the river serpent that had sent Boundless after the Heart had, apparently, also instructed this young dragon to assist him. “Tell me,” Boundless said. “What does Agyrt desire?”

Daerev sighed, looked over at him. “I have no bucking clue,” he said.


***


Trixie ran through the Crystal Empire, hooves pounding the pavement. Pinkie was nowhere to be seen, not that that meant anything. For all Trixie knew, she’d already run into Pinkie several times.

Twilight had given her a cursory rundown of an Anchor’s abilities, and, honestly, they seemed a bit unfair. Compared to mind-reading and super-powered spellcasting, Pinkie could apparently completely violate the laws of nature and time. Oh, there were limits. The effects were localised—Pinkie couldn’t affect things she wasn’t touching, and temporal manipulation was a one-and-done kind of deal. Trixie didn’t really understand that part, but the gist of it was that if she caught Pinkie, she’d have caught Pinkie. Or something.

That left the problem of catching somepony who could walk through the strongest barrier Trixie’d ever seen as if it wasn’t even there, without disturbing it in the slightest. Fortunately for Trixie, she had access to a few more tricks than Twilight.

Brash had spent some small time here, in the Empire, enough to give her a reasonable memory of the streets, so that she wasn’t running blind. Cumulus had studied magical flow—the theory and application of magic as a raw material—such that she could grasp at the sorts of uses Pinkie was turning it to.

She’d conjured chains and barriers, only for Pinkie to, predictably, walk through them. She’d crafted illusory monsters, great walls of fire, visions of horror and despair, each eliciting no more than a chuckle before they were blown apart as Pinkie reached them. She’d tagged Pinkie a few times, earlier, each bolt of magic imbued with a tracing spell of sorts, that would allow her to track Pinkie’s movements. Each had slid off her coat like oil over water. The spell that had hit the Crystal Heart itself, however . . . ah, now that was a different matter.

She could sense the Heart, some blocks to her left, moving rapidly away from everything. What Pinkie had on her mind, Trixie couldn’t begin to guess. Not that that mattered, she supposed, in the end. Much as she might have liked a unanimous decision, they’d reached a point of no return.

She remembered moments, after Boundless had freed her, after she’d tried to kill herself on the shores of—of what she now realised might have been the Lethe itself—after Twilight’s tearful apology by her hospital bed, where she’d cursed her freedom. Wishing only for a return to the comforting illusion of control that the Veil paraded before everypony, she’d derided herself, rejected Twilight’s rhetoric. Surely, surely even a single life was worth this, a continent enslaved? They retained free will, after all, retained fear and anger and hate.

But Trixie was a master of illusions. She’d been behind the curtains, pulled the strings. She had lived with two voices in her mind for years—absorbed their memories, skills, even some mannerisms, as if she’d lived them. She knew her limits, and by extension, the limits of this, the greatest illusion of all.

Because that’s what it was. Manipulating, controlling, seducing, the Veil had crafted a world exquisite, from which nopony sane would wish to wake. And behind the scenes, reality marched on. Luna acknowledged it, in her pained demands for agency. Twilight, even, searching with desperation for some safe way to wake up. Typhus—the topic had been dropped, ignored, earlier, though so much seemed to rest on Him: this nebulous threat from beyond.

Trixie didn’t believe in inevitability. No fate prescribed, nothing taken for granted. And on the flip-side . . . she remembered a dreamscape, screaming at Luna, defending with every fibre of herself her culpability in Shining Armour’s death. I will not give up the responsibility that is my due. She’d lost that fire, somewhere—failed to bring it forth when Luna again, undeterred, made the argument that Boundless had obliterated even her will, dominated her so utterly that no choice had been made at all . . . and yet, that was true, as well.

Sick and tired of the Other deciding. That’s what Trixie was doing here, slipping down the slope of freedom. Taking responsibility—taking agency. And the weight on her shoulders, weight placed by Twilight, and Luna, and Shining Armour, and Boundless himself, shifted, rolled, dug into her muscles like a sharp massage, before settling down, comfortably, across her back. Her burden to bear. Not Equestria’s, not the Veil’s, hers. With luck, that would be enough.

She grinned, cloaked herself in magic, tricking the light into bending around her, muffled the sounds of her hooves and lungs, blocked the smell of her sweat, and teleported, landing just twenty metres in front of Pinkie. The Crystal Heart glimmered in her grasp.

Almost immediately, Pinkie’s head turned to stare straight at Trixie—somehow penetrating the magic in an instant. She began to shiver, odd tremors running down her body.

But she had met Trixie’s gaze, and before the magic could take hold, Trixie was inside her mind.

Cumulus, or memories of him, intuited the magical flow. Brash showed her how to anchor herself down, hold fast to the connection. And Trixie, with an effort of nigh-transcendent glee, imposed her will, just for a second.

Pinkie stopped still, not blinking, not even breathing. Quickly, Trixie teleported, forwards, grasping the Heart in a magical field, and then again, back to the plaza, fast, fast enough that Pinkie had not the time to slip away . . .

The scene materialised before her. Luna, locked in—what almost, her mind supplied, appeared to be a magical hoof-wrestle—with Celestia and Twilight, somehow holding her own. Cadence, striding towards them with implacable tension, fury etched over her face. Boundless and Daerev standing shoulder to shoulder, watching.

She ran to Boundless, held the Heart up before him. He smiled, took a deep breath, and then hesitated, looked at her, at Daerev.

Daerev seemed to understand an instant before Trixie. He leaned back, opened his jaws wide, and, mixing voice with dragonfire, let loose a roar that shook the castle, great plumes of green arcing up and over, gouts of fire splashing down onto the cobblestone.

The Princesses, and Twilight, stopped, turned, surprise morphing to horror and anticipation . . .

Trixie peered into the Crystal Heart. She could hear, almost feel the minds of the citizens of the Empire, bubbling inside, in time with the ripples of light along its surface, the motes drifting within. No, more, she needed more. She looked up, holding that tenuous connection, found Boundless and added him to the mix. And then, as he summoned once again his knife, brown aura holding it against his neck—trembling, now, stage fright, she understood, suicide was all well and good in theory, for him, another means to stamp his presence on Them, to draw Their attention, but faced with its reality falling back, just a child, a misaligned one, to be sure, but a child nonetheless, who, in the horror dawning in his mind, was only now realising that his effective mother was arguing and fighting for his own execution . . . There were no winners here.

The surge of emotion that broke forth from that train of thought almost shattered Trixie’s concentration. It rushed through her, through the Heart, hit everypony connected to it all at once. She fought for just an instant—lose control—before surrendering, letting herself be carried away, intermingling with his own existential dread, her own pathos, the stunned sense of oncoming doom that fed back to her through the artifact in her hoof, and rode it outwards, pushed the boundaries south, east, west, further and further, touching Hornwall, and Canterlot, and Manehattan, using the emotion of each added pony to leap to the next. In moments, she had spilled across Equestria itself.

Boundless was in her mind, now, and she reassured him, promised him safety. Whispered words of calm. She found in herself the detachment to both raise his knife in her magic, feel his coat under her hooves, and project the dichotomy, the eye of the paradox, that Twilight so lauded. Intrinsic good, or even just a belief in it.

Her eyes closed, Trixie drove Boundless’ magic into his chest. Azure and brown, both suddenly drenched in blood, discolouring the magic to a deep, dark purple, the purple of night, past twilight, the purple that appears when the moon is about to rise.


***


It wasn’t as bad as anypony had feared—but neither was it as good as they’d hoped.

There were no sudden gangs of rapists or murderers. Capacity didn’t equate to willingness, after all, nor did the removal of the imposition ‘gainst imply its opposite.

But the peace was broken.

Thousands lay curled up inside their homes, assailed by sudden thoughts of despair, sorrows that had been held back from them all their lives. They didn’t know how to deal with the tidal waves of depression, anxiety, frustration—oh, not unfamiliar concepts, no, but so unprovoked, and accompanied by the sickest, most fatalistic thoughts. Some died, by their own hooves. Not many. But some.

Thousands took to the streets, bewildered and confused. They sought comfort in company, and found it. But no leaders stepped forward to assure them, and so their confusion found itself just as amplified as the relief they took in each other. They pressed together, consciously or not seeking a framework, a bulwark against the onset of agoraphobia. They sheltered their eyes, made a low hum with their throats. Anything to anchor themselves in the identity of the crowd. Some were even injured, in the press of bodies. But none died.

Thousands gathered in smaller groups, festering, wild, they turned to the worst among them for they had the loudest voices, and infected by the mad strain of exuberant power began to run. They tore through buildings, broke fences, shattered glass. They looted and burned, an orgy of violent expression. Other ponies they knocked about, rushed past, screamed at. Was it so surprising that they refrained from the most heinous of crimes? That even the worst among them seemed averse, in a most peculiar way, to turn their minds to their darkest corners? The cynical among you will name it a cognitive dissonance, shrug, and walk away.

Thousands found themselves in possession of both capacity and motive. Bearing grudges, or coming off the back of a terrible argument, they suffered the ill fortune of timing, and the passion founded by proximity proved too much. They saw blood and pain and struggle. They murdered, raped, pillaged. Each act more callous than the last, each time more able to turn a blind eye. Equestria saw more violent crime that day than it had in the past millennium.

Thousands barely noticed. They swayed, certainly, with the rest of Equestria when the wave hit them. But they saw no reason to disrupt their business, to alter their routine. For them, it was only a secondary concern, or tertiary—they had Important Things, damn it, to be about. Ledgers to balance, proposals to draft, orchards to water, plant, harvest. Mountains to chart. Texts to study. Irrigation, sanitation pipelines to be repaired.

Thousands more kept to themselves. The swirl of emotion that rushed through them inspired not despair, nor desperation, nor madness. Instead, wide smiles across their faces, they exulted in themselves, in the sheer intensity of the day. They hung from their windows, danced on the rooftops, wept in bathtubs. They wrote poetry with no stanzas, painted with wild slashes and prints, sang off-kilter and in no known key. They stood on the edges of their towns and cities and stared out, at the plains or the deserts or the oceans. They looked up, at the sky.

Canterlot was abuzz with noise, with the clash and clamour. The Castle itself was overtaken by the common-folk, those of the lower tiers sampling now the fruits of the upper circles of the city. Markets, at first brimming with exotic fruits and fabrics, were dissolved, exquisitely crafted houses defaced, mansions running with juices and pulp, while their owners succumbed to the fever-pitch of the Day.

Manehattan was more subdued, its streets narrower, its buildings higher. Denizens streaked like lifeblood, rushing here and there with no real sense of purpose. Instead, the city began to whisper, each tall block finding its own note. A low, discordant tune, encapsulating confusion and madness and joy. The city itself channelled emotion, pushed those wilder sorts from its underbelly, outwards, outwards, towards the horizon. They found themselves marching in great streams of ponies, along wide roads and railways and causeways. Heading where, nopony quite knew.

Appleloosa found in itself a quiet strength. Already tempered by their trials, nopony and no buffalo found it necessary to question the status quo. Rather, they gathered, conferred, heard from Braeburn and Bill and Achak, and countless others besides. They farmed their land, and charted the desert, and continued to rebuild. Watchers, as they’d come to be known, informally, by the townsfolk, continued to report clear skies from the North. Some, however, smelt a coming Storm, in the air, in the wind. And Achak spoke of a great disturbance, from the South.

Ponyville found its small tensions overflowing. The rapid change over the past years had never been left along long enough to settle into peaceful coexistence—and they quickly found themselves in two groups, each finding exuberant expression of a variety of grudges. But where restraint failed, proportionality did not: the older, lifelong residents confined themselves to property destruction, singing marching songs somehow both off-colour and . . . . not respectful, but contained. They tore through the housing developments, the new school, the greater market, and took particular interest in the train network that had brought so much attention to their community. The newer residents, meanwhile, expressed their frustration through change, defacing historical landmarks like the tree library, the town hall, and the town square—not destructively, but constructively, building new wings, cleaning, accenting with new fashion or details native to their old homes, from all across Equestria.

Hornwall was perhaps the hardest hit. Already struggling with unprecedented tragedy, these citizens, so abruptly struck with some level of understanding, made cursory exploration of their newfound freedoms before storming the jail, where those victims of Boundless remained. To the mob’s shock, however, by the time they arrived in the cells, baying—not for blood, not quite, but for a release, a form of closure no matter how despicable—they found all but one already deceased, the newfound wave being altogether too much for these souls, already beget with the guilt that follows introspection and time, more than anything else time, time to consider, to unpack, to realise. This last they surrounded in abject sympathy, empathy, the greatest and most harsh, the strongest and most difficult, the means and the end, they raised him up, carried him out into the Light.

Tumultuous, tempestuous, Equestria weathered a very real Storm that day.

And in the fields south of Canterlot, a loud crack split the air, rainbow shockwaves screaming across the sky. Two ponies—one cyan, the other a marble white—tumbled through the air, manifesting instantaneously and without warning, rapidly falling with a single, high-pitched shriek.


***


Deep in the Everfree, a dragon rose from the waters of the Lethe. He breathed deeply, tongue flickering out past his teeth to taste the air. Without preamble, he rose, water pouring from his vast frame, running from high ridges of bone down the membranous edges of his wings, across bright scales and leathery skin. He spread himself, crouching, and with a tremendous exertion, flung himself sky-wards, a great leap exceeding the height of the trees, jaws wide open to catch the air. He beat his wings, brushing the tree-line at his wingtips lowest point, and rose.

Agyrt Vaeros, Eldest Flame, flew south.


***


In the South, the mirage of endless desert and mountains shading the horizon shattered. Far below the sight of anypony living, the geographical border the Veil marked simply vanished, dissolved into vast amounts of magic that crashed to the earth, pooling on the ground to slowly evaporate into the air.

What replaced it was nothing short of terrifying. Winds, reaching speeds faster than any known pegasus could reach, sped around and around, forming colossal twisters that churned the land beneath them. Rain lashed out at everything it could find, pellets of water and great waves alike. Shards of ice, cruelly sharp and impossibly large spun and danced, a whirling maelstrom of malice. Lightning, in great bolts, persistent and comprehensive, lanced at the ground from horizon to horizon. Boulders, rock, rubble, even marble, handcrafted, crumbling limestone, trees, sand, vegetation and debris, all picked up in its fury and hurled against the world.

The Storm dwarfed comprehension. The sum total of a thousand years of anger, of imprisonment, an unreasoning, unthinking expression of raw power.

Typhus advanced, slowly, inexorably, northwards on Equestria.


***


And in Canterlot, deep within a sprawling hedge-maze tucked away within the Royal Gardens, a statue of a hybrid form—part dragon, part pony, goat horn and griffon claw, and an assortment of other species wrapped up in some sick kaleidescope of biology—shuddered. Small slivers spread across its body, stone splintering, cracking, groaning.

Colour began to rush outward from the cracks. Gradually, like a chick emerging from its egg, the creature shed its stone prison, dust and tiny fragments raining down to the grass underfoot.

Minutes later, it was free. It shook itself all over, an excited trembling running down its spine.

“Well, now,” it said, holding up a claw and flexing it. “This is interesting.”


The End of Part Four