Mark of Eternity
by cherrypiex
The pony in the cloak stands afar, on the top of the tower near a window. The little opening, with all the sunshine streaming in, is all she needs. She peers out, surveying the grounds below and the vast masses of Ponyville, and she sees her target.
The Mayor. In the marketplace, she trots along, smiling and greeting her fellow subjects as she passes by, as if she were free from all the sins of Equestria, as if she had tons and tons of wonderful ideas in her little bag just for Ponyville.
But no. She has the most putrid and grotesque and outlandishly selfish ideas for her subjects.
The pony in the cloak feels fury sizzling at the back of her throat, burning her whole body from the tips of her ears to her hooves. With her unicorn’s magic, she summons her bow and arrow, which up till now are safely stashed away from sight behind a barrel and hay.
The Mayor approaches a cherry-selling store and starts asking about prices. She beams, each wrinkle of her smile emanating her youth and her beauty. It reflects only idiocy and ignorance that nopony else in Ponyville has ever questioned her age.
Today, once and for all, justice will be served.
The pony in the cloak positions her single arrow onto her bow. One arrow, one shot, zero mistakes. She can feel the string of her bow being pulled; she can feel the arrow leaving the bow and zipping right through the air. The arrow, the weapon, perfectly positioned at the Mayor’s temple and no place else, echoes her perfect precision and accurate eye.
She ducks under the window, away from sight. The reaction is better heard than seen –– she knows through the other assassinations she has committed. Screams ripple through the remaining shreds of the marketplace, and commotion breaks out like hives on skin.
The Mayor, though, is silent. The pony in the cloak peeks out from a tiny slit in the wall. The Mayor hardly struggles; she merely nods into the air, acquiescent to her fate. This makes the pony in the cloak ponder, if the Mayor had known in advance.
Manually, the pony breaks her bow into pieces and tosses some of them into the hay. It is a resilient, mighty bow, and it has served her well, but she can always make another one later. After which, she sprints off, away from her little cavern shielded from sight and civilization, off into the endless flight of steps, of things she needs to accomplish.
She knows what will happen. Another mayor –– most likely the second in command –– will be elected. Another pony will be exposed to the tendrils of eternity, of frolicking with the concept of time. Another pony will have access to the spell that binds a pony to forever.
But she cannot assassinate everypony who is the future Mayor. One day, after all of this, she will strive to wipe out the source of the filth, of the contamination.
In the streets below, only inches away from the crime scene, an orange-coated pony pulls the arrow out of the Mayor’s temple. On the fletching of the arrow, there is a bold, horizontal sign of 8 imprinted on it. The mark of infinity.