//------------------------------// // Fifty-Nine // Story: The Moon Also Rises // by Nicroburst //------------------------------// There is something here. I have never been more certain. Today, I felt it, at the edges of my grasp. I was suspended exactly one metre deep in the waters, three-point-six metres from the eastern shore. I tugged on the rope one hundred and twelve seconds after submersion. I tugged to mark the time. Fifty-Nine EQUESTRIA, at least in the beginning, didn’t know how to react. The long night passing brought an end to the panic, the mad stampedes that had broken out here and there, on the forefront of Typhus’ Storm. Some, ashamed, went back to help, others fled, or continued to flee. Hornwall, and by extension, the Empire, bulged, barely able to handle the influx, plenty hiding there, unwilling, at first, to return home. Ponies died. Some from the flood of refugees, or the aftermath—the Empire failing to distribute food, or bottlenecks crushing bodies against walls and the cobblestones underhoof. Some from the wildlife, so tame for so long that the sudden aggression took ponies by surprise. Word spread quickly that, for all intents and purposes, Equestria now resembled the Everfree. Some died from the Storm. Scores of buffalo and Appleloosans, too late or too slow, were swallowed up, chewed up by the Stormwall, hurled about and dashed against rocks, blasted with lightning, or frozen and torn apart. Others were Turned, advancing slowly under the cover of the Storm, ravaging the lands further, butchering what life managed to survive—burrowing underground or slipping through the Stormwall by force of numbers, and now Freed, to wander, clueless, confused. That evening, the Princesses returned to Canterlot. Together, they told a tale, mostly true, that pointed Equestria firmly towards the future—a bright future, they claimed, and a challenge. Relief was arranged, martial elements moving in to redistribute the population, pushing ponies further south where possible. The Crystal Empire proved a vital ally in staving off the worst of the aftereffects. Above and beyond, Cadence insisted on sending aid south long after the last of the Equestrians returned to their homes, further strengthening the bonds between the two nations. Technology began to advance. The first years saw more development than the last four hundred, often provoking public outcry at the perversion of the natural order. They saw long-distance communication spread to the masses; at first enabled by the Empire’s crystals, and then Equestrian magic replacing crystalline matrices with buried metal and magic, navigation by the stars transitioned to magnetism and magical anchors, enabling the first sea voyages to spread outwards from the western and eastern borders. Appleloosa was excavated, over one long year. The hardy spirit of the frontier, found in pony and buffalo alike, saw them through the hardships and perils of the desert, no longer quite as hospitable to life. Cloudsdale’s water shipments were often waylaid by unpredictable weather patterns, and the sun beat down with renewed strength. New lore sprang up, devised and tested largely by the youth, and, together, they prevailed. Ponyville found itself completely destroyed, little more than half a brick wall remaining standing. Old divides in the town torn away, nopony found they could quite find the exact position of their plot of land, all the pieces of the home they’d once had. Instead, the town was rezoned, parcelled out amongst the survivors, now bound together by more than just length of stay. Tourism to the Forest, and the old castle therein, rose steadily, and trade through the town provided ongoing income. Residents found less harm in the development, somehow the thought of the eventual city at the base of the mountain filled them with the tingle of far-flung hope instead of the spectre of dread. Hornwall found itself governed largely by the disciples of Boundless, for better or for worse. Repentant and deeply disadvantaged, they were uniquely positioned to understand the trials facing their town and the wider world, and did what they could, as a whole, to spread empathy. Hornwall became known as a bastion of the underworld, no longer the heart of a smuggling ring but a place where ponies could find a second chance, in Equestria or the Empire. Individually, they were less forthright—Hornwall was also quick to gain a reputation for a certain seediness; a place where a few bits in the right hoof could get you nearly anything you wanted. Both halves existed together, and though far from perfect, it was stable. Slowly, Luna assumed more and more control over the government of Equestria, Celestia steadily slipping away from daily life to retreat to her study high above Canterlot. One day, she, and a select group of proven explorers, departed Equestria, heading south through the mountains, in search of parts and places as yet unknown, and resolved to keep an ancient promise. The Storm was chronicled, canonised as a new legend, though the Lethe river was kept secret, and warded with powerful magics. Coromancers began to emerge, seeking tutelage for newfound abilities. Twilight saw patronage as the head of Luna’s new School of Magic, teaching in the great tradition of Canterlot though based in Ponyville, and watching for the emerging talent. Each of the Bearers found a select few, naturally gifted, to pass on what they knew. For the first time in a millennium, Equestria, glancing backwards, looked forward. *** Twilight stepped carefully through the dark. Her horn glowed lightly, lavender light spreading just a few feet around her. The cracked stone and trickling water was as familiar as anything, yet she moved with a slow reverence, breathing deeply and slowly, feeling the gentle wind brush across her back. She hadn’t been here, to the old city, in something like thirteen years. She still remembered her initial joy—the unfettered excitement at Rainbow’s discovery, once she’d woken up to what it meant, her resolve to investigate, to delve into the depths and learn. She also remembered the pain the city had dealt her, the danger it represented. That was all past, now. Luna had passed to her her old memories, complementing those of Rainbow and Rarity: the layout and design, the relics and dangers therein. She was competent, strong, and knew the risks. She hadn’t had a panic attack in years. Still, she took her time. Even now, the cold air sparked a trepidation in her, a sense of trespass. As if she was intruding on something sacred. She slipped through the crevasse and onto the hill overlooking the city, sending her light forward and widening it considerably. The ruined buildings, grid-like streets full of rubble and overgrown plant-life, crystals dotting the sidewalk . . . All as she remembered, as they remembered. She walked down the hill, skidding a little on the loose gravel. They’d need to fix up a proper entrance to this place, though, widen the crevasse and provide a structured, safe tunnel to it, as well as a more solid ramp down to the city proper. The crystal lights worked well enough, Twilight supposed, in daylight—and perhaps they could dig a few holes in the ceiling to allow the daylight in—but there would need to be proper lights, lining safe routes and guiding tourists away from the more important areas of excavation. She retrieved a notebook from her saddlebags and jotted down her thoughts. As she moved forward, she left marks on the rough map she’d transcribed. There was still magic here. She knew of relics—one in particular sprang to mind. She’d never found the library Rainbow had described, either, all those years ago. It surrounded her, thick and old, like the air in a musty attic. She took up one thread and followed it, sketching out her route as she went. Everything was so still here, so dead. A crypt. She snorted a little, pushing dust from her nostrils, before weaving a quick spell to clean the air in front of her. She was forced to navigate around a few mounds of rubble, collapsed buildings blocking the streets, sections where the stone had cracked and the Forest had claimed the ground, thick plants leaving no room to squeeze past. Backtracking, she saw her hoofsteps marked in dust inches thick. She took her time, long minutes of silence, circling around obstacles, gradually closing in on her goal. Finally, ducking under a doorway, she came to a stop. The trail pointed at the wall of this building—a small house, Twilight guessed, going off the square wooden table, chairs pushed back and toppled over, joining wall leading to what appeared to be a sleeping area. She approached the wall, where a picture frame still hung. Simple, carved wood surrounding a pane of glass. She peered inwards and- -They were sitting around a rug, smiling, chatting. The sun was bright, Celestia’s warmth shining down over them. Ruby played in the stream, with Growler watching over her. Abby lay back in the grass, letting it bend around her and spring back to its full length at her sides, tickling her all the while. Benny idly threw a dandelion at her, and she caught it, nibbling on its petals. Even old Chisel and his wife—Abby’s parent’s-in-law—were smiling, rocking back and forth gently on the rickety things Benny had made last winter. She was so, so warm.- -and Twilight lurched backwards, horn flashing as she cut the connection. She took several deep breaths, letting the residual feeling wash over her. The cold felt abruptly alien, hostile. She looked again at the table, crockery lying there, covered in dust, around the room, where other affects and belongings remained. She exhaled, a long, low whistle. Carefully, she took the painting from the wall, secured it in her saddlebags. She’d need to study the magic used here, compare it to the crystals Cadence had supplied her. She marked her location down, both on her map and on the wall of the house. Then, carefully, Twilight returned to the world above. *** The other Wonderbolts had gotten lazy in her absence, Rainbow thought. Used to be the routines she’d come up with would be mastered with that little something extra added—each member one-upping each other, beating Rainbow’s times in the obstacles, or doing it the same but with just a touch more flair. Now, she left them all in the dust. So to speak. “Damn it, Flare,” Rainbow said, flying up alongside him. “I’ve told you a million times!” Sweating, he looked away. “Yeah, yeah. I’m trying, okay?” “Try harder,” Rainbow said. “Watch.” Rolling on her wing, she dove underneath him and sped up, leaving a rainbow contrail circling past his face. She spun into a series of acrobatics, whirling past imaginary targets in the sky, old memories of Turned pegasi lashing out at her with their weapons. She flinched, covered it up by throwing herself into a backflip, and tapped just a little into her emotions, letting her frustration with his performance bleed into her wings. The burst of speed carried her into the final few tricks, snap-turns that reached G’s way beyond anything most pegasi would experience and twirls that used her wings as anchors in the air. She pulled up, bled off excess speed, and returned to Flare, hovering in place. “See it?” “The back-flip? That’s not part of . . .” Rainbow slapped him on the head with a wing. “No, not the back-flip.” “I can’t match your speed,” Flare said. “None of us can.” “No,” Rainbow agreed. “But you can go faster than you are. So stop trying to beat me and start trying to catch me.” Flare glanced at her, then away, his eyes roaming the stadium around them, mercifully empty for this practice. “Okay?” Rainbow asked. “You’re a Wonderbolt, right? Not just a mewling foal, who needs daddy to watch over him every time he leaves the nest?” Flare stiffened. “Yes, ma’am!” Rainbow grinned. “Good. Again.” He burst into action, following the routine sans her flashback. She didn’t expect him to reach the heights of Coromantic-assisted flight—that was years away yet. She was watching for the twitches, the tiny moments of hesitation before the plunge that meant she could squeeze more out of them. It was the only way forward she knew, a philosophy that had served her her entire life, and she meant to give it to them if they hated her for it. The chase, the relentless pursuit of perfection with no intention of ever catching it. They had to trust their bodies—know what was going to happen before they ever did it. Pegasi were Coromancers of the soul, they had no horns to channel their mind’s will, or the intrinsic, bone-deep connection to the earth of the earth ponies. Pegasi sang in flight. “Again!” she called, and turned to observe others. The tour was starting in ten days, and they were ready. They’d been ready for weeks. But Rainbow would hold off on that, refuse to admit it to them officially until they were on the bus. Besides—watching them in the sky, some of them stepping out of the routine just for the hell of it—she thought they already knew. *** Rarity spun out the spool of fabric, feeling it run through her hooves. She had been assured of its quality, the producer going on about thread count and these new looms, but nothing beat feeling the fabric under her skin, feeling it play through her fur. Satisfied, she nodded, tossing one end over the table to drape down towards the floor. She dropped her glasses onto her face, and bent down to run the edge through the sewing machine’s needle. The pattern was deceptively simple, full of long arcs meeting in clusters and spinning back out. The real trick was to keep the thread separate—to stop it from bunching up. Even half a millimetre off, and it would be noticeable, out-of-place compared to its immediate neighbour. She closed her eyes, and Saw. Her hooves moved, magic making slight adjustments to position and angle, but always based on the result. No second guessing; she created exactly what she wanted, a perfect, seamless transition between the vision in her mind and the material under her hooves. She hummed as she worked, other worries dropping away. This was the simplicity she lived for, in the end—not the grand design, the line of dresses and the spectacle of the parade, but the act of creation, purely in the moment. These were to be drapes, hung from the central tower overlooking the entrance to Twilight’s new university. The school year was starting in a few weeks, and everypony was chipping in to help mark the date. Celestia was giving a speech. Rainbow had arranged a show. Pinkie was hosting the aftermath; Applejack helping out with the food. She’d even heard Fluttershy would be coming back from one of her expeditions. And then she’d be off, leaving behind fashion for the moment to attend to some of the planning around Ponyville’s eastern developments. A few developers from Manehattan had smelt blood in the water, apparently, and were lobbying the Mayor for permission to build over there. Nothing egregious, they had promised. Rarity knew better. The high rise and high density accommodation that they knew had its place. Ponyville wasn’t there yet—would never be, if she had her way. That didn’t mean it couldn’t grow, couldn’t become a bustling metropolis. Just . . . a more elegant one. She envisioned soaring arches, hidden gardens and large public squares. An openness, a promise of intermingling and fresh air.  The fabric ran out underneath her, and she blinked her eyes open, coming out of her trance. Perfect, as she’d Seen. She moved the drape over to one corner of her working room, and drew the second, frowning a little as her hooves ran over the fabric. No, this wouldn’t do, that lump there was going to . . . she drew the threads together, twisting a little with telekinesis, her control fine enough to nudge the strands apart. She dropped the bolt across her table, and went over it carefully, not trusting the one fault to remain alone. Sure enough, she picked out a few more; spots where the threads caught on a defect in the surface, or were somehow twisted together. She sighed. She’d be having a word with their quality control. Slowly, she teased each flaw from the fabric, using magic to sever and reconnect threads where required. She’d need to go back over the first bolt, now, her less-than-thorough check called into question. She resolved to do so, and closed her eyes, quickly checking what she’d find. There would be more and more, over the coming years. She could see the trends developing, even without her Sight. A push towards the functional, the rapid. Not necessarily out of greed, or apathy, but a desire to keep pace, to seek out the Next Thing. She could see her influence; how she might spread it out across Equestria. A check, a balance, an eye to luxury and aesthetic where it was sorely needed. She bent back to work. She’d always wanted to live in Canterlot, to be a part of high society. But when she considered the future, now, it was Ponyville with which she identified. She saw a rustic appeal, a charm to it, that resisted the ongoing modernisation. If she wouldn’t join high society, then perhaps she could bring high society to her. Grow Ponyville into the trade metropolis it had always threatened to become. Meld the rural aesthetic with the sweeping marble of Canterlot. Invest in theatre, dance; the thriving arts community that graced Manehattan. It would work. She could already See it. *** Pinkie smiled as she handed over the scroll. The little filly, barely coming up to her knees, giggling, scurrying away with it clamped between her lips. “Thanks,” the filly’s mother said, passing over a few bits. “Welcome,” Pinkie said, turning to deposit the bits on the bench beside her. “She’s a good kid.” The mare ducked her head. “Somehow this is her favourite part of the day. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Pinkie tilted her head to the side. “Trouble?” “Nothing so much.” Pinkie leaned forward over the windowsill she was selling pastries from. “Come onnnn,” she said. “Talk to Aunty Pinkie.” She smirked. “It’s just a little harder to find those bright spots nowadays. Just a little less eager to jump in and help.” “Ah,” Pinkie said. “What, no sudden balloons?” “I don’t think you really need balloons anymore.” There was something indescribably sad in that, to Pinkie. Perhaps it was inevitable, perhaps not. Either way, the lustre was gone—the shine and the accompanying thrill that it sparked in her heart. “Maybe just an ear, once every now and then?” She smiled, now, properly. “That sounds lovely.” Indeed, Pinkie reflected as the mare left, ushering her filly in front of her, less room for spontaneous parties wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. It didn’t change her, not really, not where it counted. She wanted to see ponies smile; wanted to pursue their happiness. Somewhere along the line, a combination of her own failures, her impotence and the deep-seated fear of being seen to be foolish had taught her something. A personal story, buried in amongst all the Big Things that went on around her. She’d never been one for prophecies and ancient evils. That was more Twilight’s schtick, she wanted nothing to do with it. She liked the quiet days, the warm feeling of acknowledgement, the visits to the market where she knew everypony’s name. Pinkie smiled at the next customer, a harried-looking stallion who dropped his coin and left without much more than a muttered “thanks.” So what if she didn’t mind so much that there was no impetus to celebrate, no drive to jump out into the street and inspire glee. She was beginning to see how much more she could do, back here. Moving almost unseen, talking quietly, listening. Being there, for anypony and for everypony. What power she’d had had been based on recognition—on her brand. No more. Pinkie closed her shop window, the line of customers all served to their first preference, with no goods left over to go stale. Her Pinkie Sense was useful, still—would allow her to always be prepared, always have an answer ready at hoof. The difference was in her, was about the sorts of responses she elected to prepare. She ducked around the back of the shop, doffing her apron, and heading through a tangled series of alleys. The outskirts were better organised than this, streets going up in a grid, but here it was the same old warren of the Ponyville she remembered and loved. Finally, she came to a deep blue door, inset in the wall of a particular back-alley. She knocked furtively, enjoying the little thrill of subterfuge while it lasted. “Pinkie,” a gruff voice greeted her. “Hey,” she replied, stepping inside. It wasn’t just fillys and foals that needed her. These days, more than ever, it was the adults, fixed into their old ways and struggling to adjust. The workers suddenly uprooted, their stability lost in pursuit of the next Big Thing. The families destroyed by newfound curiosity, in good and bad ways. The uptick in crime, and, horrifically, reports from metropolis’s of murder, here and there. She couldn’t stop that—had proven that to herself time and again. But she might, in a small way, make the transition less painful, and promote, in lieu of Celestia’s, her own sense of morality where she went. Maybe that way, she could reclaim something of what had been lost. *** The orchard was thirsty. Applejack could hear it from here, so to speak, sitting at the table in the Sweet Apple Acres farmhouse. Rain was much less regular—it made it harder to make sure her trees were getting watered as much as they needed. “So,” she said, drawing the attention of her sister. “Baltimare?” “It’s contract work,” Applebloom said. “Half the year, or thereabouts. I mean, they might want to keep me on, but Ah wouldn’t exactly bet on it.” “Mm,” Applejack grunted. She couldn’t say this was unexpected. Applebloom had been heavily involved in a number of projects around the town—word was bound to get out, connections making their way up the chain until something higher profile showed up. Still, something about it rubbed her the wrong way. She’d never really considered leaving the farm—not after the fateful day she’d gotten her Cutie Mark. It just . . . wasn’t done. Mac was still here, still heaving great loads around. She was content, here, happy to continue her work, aided by just a little spark of magic. Not to say that things hadn’t changed. They’d had to adapt to new times—change the focus of their business. Sweet Apple was no longer involved in bulk farming—automation had, or would, in a few years, render that model obsolete. No, now they sold a premium product. Sweet Apples apples were made with love—literally. And there was demand for that, would always be demand for that. They were comfortable, here. But Applebloom wasn’t. There just wasn’t all that much opportunity for her to apply herself about the farm. They worked as a well-oiled machine might, all excess and confusion long since cut out of the process. And Applejack and Big Mac were sufficient, if truth be told, to the reduced size of the farm as it stood today. “Alright,” Applejack said, wincing internally at the drawn-out silence. Applebloom visibly relaxed a little, sinking down into her seat. “I’ll take apples,” Applebloom said, suddenly. “Ah can sell them for cheap, o-or give them out to friends and co-workers.” Applejack smiled. “Don’t be too eager,” she said. “Ah still remember you forcing them down ponies throats, y’know.” “Sis!” Applebloom protested. “It ain’t like that.” “It’s a good idea,” Applejack said. “Take a few bags. Just—keep a few, okay? Reminder of home.” Applebloom nodded. And it wasn’t all bad, either. Twilight had a few promising students she’d flagged to send Applejack’s way—experience on the farm helping new Wardens acclimatise to their magic, and shoring up production. She’d also found other uses: Rainbow and Rarity—but mostly Rarity—waxing lyrical on the benefits Wardens brought to city construction and building—their connection to the land allowing them to detect and solidify weaker sections of the foundation, sculpt stone and wood extremely rapidly, and ensure structural stability via micro-tremors in the ground . . . all of which more or less went over Applejack’s head until she got down in the dirt and did it. Applebloom had taken much more of a shine to it. Applejack pushed her plate back, and stood up. “Trees need water,” she said. “Mac?” “Eeyup.” They went outside, heading to a barn and taking a long hose down from where it was wrapped around a drum. It wasn’t always enough, to cover over holes in nutrition, water, time, with emotion. She could have spent an hour in the orchard, giving herself to the trees to alleviate their thirst, but the end-product would have suffered for it, and required much more of her. The world took its due, as it always did. She drew the hose out to the edge of the orchard, where Applebloom had planted an opening in the ground. The irrigation system was still alien to Applejack—she understood it, a simple system of pipes and small holes buried underground, but compared to the weather schedule of old . . . she shook herself, and planted the hose in the opening, then shook it in a particular pattern, watching the signal travel back down the length of the hose to Mac. Some few seconds later, she felt the swell of water rushing through, and held the hose in place as the initial rush pushed it back. The pressure abated soon after, and she stood back to feel the water move through the earth, reaching the roots of her trees. This was a stopgap, a sip where they wanted a glass, but it did buy time, help them, in a small way, to adjust. Applejack breathed the dusk air in, staring out over her orchard with a small smile on her lips. Perhaps, with a little luck, it would even be enough. *** Fluttershy bent down to whisper to the small bird. Just a nestling, a crow, it must have fallen from its nest. She scooped it up in one wing, feeling it tremble against her feathers, lean into her, and placed it on her head. It stamped its little feet down into her mane, securing its grip. Slowly, she lifted them off the ground, coming up into the tree level where the branches grew thicker. She wove them about, rising, until she spotted the nest, nestled into the crook of a trunk high above, the odd bit of grass poking through the thick cluster of twigs. Carefully, she placed the nestling back with his nestmates, all of them chirping at her for food. She looked around, wondering where the parents were. They wouldn’t go far to forage. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head. Wincing, she spun in the air, confronting a larger crow, the father, likely, swooping down at her. Fluttershy folded her wings and feel a few feet, feeling the crow’s feet scrape across the top of her head and coming away with a tuft of her mane. She grimaced, patting the wound down, and flew back towards the ground, listening for any of the slight sounds that might tip off pursuit. Unfortunately, this wasn’t an isolated problem. More and more of the animals she was encountering were attacking her, or at the least watching her warily. It wasn’t even that she’d lost her talent at communication, she was usually able, with a little work, to earn their trust, or hold simple conversation. Just that it took longer to get there, that she could no longer assume friendship. The influence was obvious, the Veil’s extension even to Equestria’s wildlife a little surprising, but, in retrospect, entirely clear. What distressed Fluttershy the most was the idea that this state of affairs was natural—that in-built behavioural patterns were designed to protect against potential threats. Except . . . she’d always accepted the predator prey cycle on some level. She’d fed bears fish, heard wolves track deer, and watched vultures circle the old and the sick. No, what distressed Fluttershy was that she was now counted one of those potential threats. Ponies didn’t eat meat—but they could. Eggs were a staple part of most diets, fish a rare delicacy in some places of Equestria. Certain climates could produce farming shortages—snap-freezes killing off a crop, or drought resulting in the produce coming out shrivelled and malnourished. Pegasi did what they could to improve weather conditions—it would be a huge industry, in just a few short years, bigger than it had ever been before, she predicted—but they could not account for random chance. And ponies needed proteins, needed certain fats. Simple math, reflected here in the aggressive defence of a crow’s young. But there was a beauty in it, too. She reflected on the willingness of a bird to attack her—so much larger, more capable than he’d ever be. Hopelessly outmatched, and fighting nonetheless. Was love a survival mechanism? She didn’t think so, in the end. Out here, on the fringes of Equestria, surrounded by not a hostile landscape, but an uncaring one, Fluttershy could feel the magic in the land move, swaying to and fro as if blown by the wind. There was a rhythm to life, distinct from the rhythms of the cities, a nurturing, challenging dance. She fit herself into it, walking forward, hearing the snap of dead leaves under her hooves and the chirps and rustles of the life around her, seeing the natural beaten paths, routes cleared through the undergrowth. It was every bit a city. She made notes of the paths, of the crow’s behaviours with her speculations on their motivations and what she might infer from that. She carefully noted what she could on population density’s, watching movements through the skies and looking for more nests as she walked. She’d been a Ranger for years, applying what wisdom she’d learnt over her life to the safety and protection of Equestria’s many preserved areas. That wisdom was obsolete, now—not gone, but no longer sufficient, either. She’d do what she could to relearn it, and she’d pass what she knew back, to the next generation. This, she thought, the breeze tickling the back of her neck and her breath frosting in front of her, was worth preserving.