Epilogue
THE WIND BLEW NORTH. A gentle wind, made of breezes and gusts, it blew in calm tranquillity. It covered the ground, coating it like a blanket of soothing balm. It crept through the ruins, the dirt-mounds, the decomposing wooden beams. It held, with a nourishing, protective strength.
There was movement. As the wind caressed a series of hills, it cried out in cheerful tunes, a welcoming wave, spread for miles around. It was carried in the rustling of leaves, the swaying of trees, the babbling waters.
The Mourning Mountains, they were called. Deep, in their bones, the rocks knew that. The wind knew them by a different name; Remembrance. It tangled itself in the twists and turns and it listened. It listened to the long tale of history.
The sun was warm, content to play across the land’s face. Summer nurtured the growth all around, the slow spreading of green and blue. The ground melted in its path, loose and supple. Replete.
The wind blew east. It moved with great strength, flecks of sand and grit wrapped up in its embrace. This wind was the easy grip of a father, a restrained power. It cherished the world around it, and relaxed into its path with simple laughter.
Eventually, it came to a shore. Distantly it heard the caw of seagulls, fishing for food in the ocean. It heard, and it responded, chasing the waves out to sea. It needed nothing out there, hoped to find nothing. It would always return.
The Great Sea, though some had argued that title belonged west. But the sea knew. It knew it by the depth of its floor and the weight of its waters. A great mass, a body larger, more ponderous, than any other; the wind stirred its surface. It danced in the waves, a duet, unobserved and precious.
The moon’s shackle was much the same. It carried no extremes, and the crisp chill of autumn covered the land in soft stillness. Like the crisp morning air at dawn, the wind’s wake carried with it the promise of the day to come.
The wind blew west. It stayed low, close to the earth. It had no speed, no force, just a cool kiss as it glided overhead. It touched everything, took a little, gave a little. It brought together things from far away places.
It blew for an age, never rushing, never changing its speed. It came to a quiet sea, spilling out across it like a warm blanket over a bed.
The Calm Sea, named for its gentleness, for a passive fulfilment of nature. It rocked under the gentle touch of the wind. Here, though, the wind rested; asleep with the Sea itself. It waited, content.
Spring, here, at the other pole of the moon. Gentle, rejuvenating; the land was verdant here, overflowing. The wind knew spring, could taste its sweetness in the air. And in its neighbours it found balance: a warm blanket, and a long night.
The wind blew south. It blew with the laziness of a gorged animal, a general apathy that gave way to the slightest resistance. It moved, and that was enough—the minimum to define its existence. All power the wind had once held was spent, scattered.
It traversed the plains slowly. It needed no rubble, no sand or fallen branches: no past to arm itself with. The high hills, twisting valleys, and deep ravines offered no barrier, but a rolling ramp, pushing the wind towards the sky.
The Salvation mountains had fulfilled their age-old promise, but it was not through them that the wind found freedom. It settled into the mountain tops, found there a home.
Winter, along the sun’s beam; a distant sun, was aloof. There was sharpness, here, a taste of metal. Water from the east and west, from the south beyond the mountains, froze into pebbles of ice in the air, rained down to renew the ground. Streams became bridges, lakes playgrounds for the animals that came to drink.
Then the wind felt something new. Something it had been waiting for, without knowing it. Nothing heard the whispers, conjured and carried by the wind. Nothing greeted the winds at their extremes. But at their source, at their centre, there . . . there the winds felt magic.
The great pool, held deep within the midnight structure, rippled. From its depths, a fuzzy head, led by two ears on pinpricks, emerged. It lunged upwards, as if catapulted out of nowhere, and fell back into the pool, lying on its back.
It took a deep breath, and started moving towards the edge, only to stop abruptly. It looked down, peering into the water, and held up two hooves. It squirmed, sighed, and then paddled slowly to the edge.
It clambered awkwardly onto firm land. Power thrummed in the air. But the pony only sighed, and sighed again.
It—he—was ash-grey, fur covering his entire body, shaggy fetlocks spilling over his hard hooves, and long, black tail and mane, soaked, and clinging to his body. Deep brown eyes turned, gazed around at the darkness.
A spark shot out from his horn, and he jumped. Gazing up, he smirked, and summoned another, and then another. Soon enough, the tip of his horn glowed with a pale brown light, enough to illuminate his surroundings.
He turned his light back at the pool, and found his reflection staring back up at him. Wide eyes, proportionally at least thrice the size he was used to, stared back.
He groaned. “I told them,” muttering, “I told them. This, this, is why you don’t give a Shard to a six-year-old. Adonalsium preserve me . . .”
The pony shook his head slowly, then, without another word, without so much as a backwards glance, he swam back out into the pool, and ducked beneath the surface.
The ripples from his passage reached out across the pool. Gliding, gliding, gone.
The End