Twilight Sparkle exited the lecture hall, the broad door swinging shut behind her. Her hooves sunk into the fresh snow as she stepped outside. The weather had taken an unfortunate turn at some point.
She trotted to the front of the building. Students were streaming out, most of them seemingly immune to the cold weather. By contrast, Twilight had pulled her scarf up to her mouth.
Twilight was about to head to her office, but a voice arrested her progress.
“I'm sorry.”
Before turning around, Twilight gently shook the snow from her mane. She didn't recognize the voice. But when her eyes fell on the hooded figure standing next to the entrance, she instinctively recoiled.
Lyra stepped forward. Her and Twilight were entirely alone, the students having fled for the evening. The area around the hall had rapidly cleared out in a matter of moments. Lyra was glad.
“I know this is hard for you,” she said. “But I need to know exactly what happened. I can't leave until I find out the truth.”
Twilight closed her eyes and sighed. She'd probably been expecting this day, but she'd been putting it off in her mind. Not next week, not next month, not next year. Some day far in the future, after she'd become comfortably numb to it all.
“You already know the truth, Lyra,” she said.
Lyra pitied Twilight. Keeping that secret must have felt like swallowing a ball of needles. She could imagine the agony as it shredded her throat on the way down. Then it would just sit there, pricking at the inside of her stomach.
However, Lyra was offering Twilight something the latter didn't know she wanted: closure. Perhaps not the perfect closure, but a chance for some kind of ending.
“What do you want to know?” said Twilight. “The Moon Sickness? The deaths? The ritual? What more could you possibly want to know?”
Lyra withdrew a notebook from her saddlebag. She waved it in the air, forcing Twilight's attention towards it.
“I want to know if you wrote this,” she said.
Twilight stared at the notebook as if it was some kind of weapon. She backed away, muffled fear in her eyes.
“I...I gave that to Mrs. Pie...,” she choked out.
Lyra looked at the notebook, a genuinely loving smile on her face. She could appreciate admirable research tactics and determination. Twilight reminded her of herself, although their quests had been different.
“Here,” she said.
She levitated the notebook over to Twilight.
Twilight was so surprised that she grabbed it without thinking. She held the notebook in her magic, her fear morphing into gratitude. She seemed to have abruptly come to regard the notebook as a long lost friend. Giving it away must have been difficult.
“All of my research,” she said. “I spent so many months trying to find a cure. And then, for the good of Equestria, I had to just....”
She pressed the notebook to her muzzle and inhaled. The aroma of ink and paper was a constant she had fallen in love with over the years.
Lyra levitated something else out of her saddlebag. It was the journal. She was not the slightest bit reluctant to give it up. Lyra understood why Spike had hidden it, why he had gone to so much trouble to keep it away from prying eyes. She understood why Twilight had cast the spell on it. She understood why the Apples had built a shed over the well.
A shared secret. A bond of knowing. A stronger friendship might never exist in the land of Equestria.
“Do you have the photographs Spike took out of this?” said Lyra.
Twilight took the journal, staring at as if it too was an old friend.
“He burned them,” she said. “He really didn't want anypony to know. He cares too much about keeping me away from the past.”
She smiled. She knew Spike wouldn't be, but she was glad he'd been unsuccessful. Underneath the suffocating darkness of mistakes, there was a shining light of truth that had fallen over Twilight.
“Moondancer has a message for you,” said Lyra.
Twilight looked up immediately. She apparently hadn't heard that name in years.
“She says she's sorry,” said Lyra. “She says she wishes she could have been a better friend. But she couldn't resist chasing the truth. She left you behind to run after it. She's regretted it ever since.”
Moondancer hadn't quite said all that—in fact she'd only said the first part—but Lyra knew it was true.
Twilight looked at the notebook and the journal in turn.
“Tell her I'm sorry as well,” she said. “I ran away from her because I couldn't accept what I'd done. Everypony else has false memories to help them cope, but...”
She shook her head, reliving perhaps years of nightmares. Lyra wondered if Twilight had ever gotten a good sleep. For that matter, when was the last time Lyra had a decent sleep?
“I could have given myself false memories,” said Twilight. “I don't know why I didn't.”
Lyra didn't know why either. But she didn't want to probe the inner workings of Twilight's brain. Some mysteries would have to remain unsolved forever.
“I forgive you,” she said.
She meant it with all her heart.
Lyra left the journal and the notebook with Twilight. They were rightfully Twilight's—and Spike's—after all. Lyra had gotten everything she wanted.
She took the train out of Canterlot. Lyra would have stayed longer, but she was in a bit of a hurry. She'd—there'd been much protest involved—dropped Marble off at the Pie family residence. It was there that she headed next, although not to see Marble.
She thought about the melody and the ritual. She thought about how everything seemed utterly clear, almost as if a spotlight illuminated the path.
Lyra's thoughts kept returning to The Wizard of Canterlot. Not the version she had cherished as a child, but the original story she'd come to know. She decided that she liked the original better than the sugary rewrite.
In the original, the hero wasn't sure of his morality and neither was the reader. He did what he had to do, but there were moments in which he stumbled on his own ideals. Perhaps that was how Twilight Sparkle felt when the fate of an entire town—and by extension an entire land—was dropped on her doorstep by an unfortunate twist of fate.
She arranged herself across the seat and shut her eyes. Her stop wouldn't be coming for a little while. Lyra had time for a nap.
“Ms. Heartstrings?”
Lyra recognized the voice, but she didn't open her eyes. She rolled over onto her back.
“Sleeping,” she mumbled.
The voice came again. It was softer and more defeated than the last time Lyra had heard it. Its owner did not seem as casually malicious.
“You have done very well,” continued Fleur. “We are all very impressed by your progress. Although this is quite beyond my authority, I would like to formally offer...”
Lyra cut across Fleur. She spoke with the utmost calm.
“Go to Tartarus,” she said.
If Fleur was insulted, she hid her emotions admirably.
“We gave you a chance,” she said. “Are we not entitled to the same? The resources we could offer you...”
She was again interrupted.
This time there was more force behind each word Lyra spoke. But it was not the force of somepony who was barely keeping their anger at bay. It was the authoritative intensity of somepony who intended to be left alone. She punctuated each word, outlining its meaning with her voice alone.
“Go. To. Tartarus,” she said.
Fleur withdrew from the topic without another word.
Lyra knew Fleur could have grabbed her—the train car was empty except for the two of them—but she also knew that no such thing would happen. Despite her lack of compliance, the unnamed organization Fleur worked for must appreciate Lyra's capabilities. They also must appreciate that Lyra wasn't a threat to them or their mission statement.
An hour later, Lyra disembarked. She did not look back to see if Fleur was following her—she doubted she was—before leaving the train.
The Pie family residence looked almost exactly the same. The changing weather had altered its appearance a little, but otherwise the place hadn't changed. Marble was right about how rock farms seem immune to anything other than the inevitable changing seasons.
Lyra trotted up the path to the door. She raised a hoof to knock. The words she wanted to say had already become hopelessly tangled in her emotions. She had so many things to say to both Cloudy and Marble. But who did she really want to talk to first?
The door swung open before Lyra could knock. It was Cloudy Quartz, her glasses perched on her muzzle as always. But unlike the last time Lyra had seen her, she was genuinely smiling. Her smile didn't drop when she saw Lyra standing there.
“I was expecting you,” she said.
Lyra looked past Cloudy. She half-expected to see an angry Marble standing there, but nopony else seemed to be nearby.
“Where's your daughter?” she said.
She knew she sounded rude, but she couldn't help it. Lyra had realized just how many apologies she had to make. She needed to let Marble know that everything was fine between them. She needed to thank her for everything she'd done, even if Lyra had decided to continue on alone in the end.
Cloudy smiled sadly.
“Off on an adventure,” she said. “Igneous Rock is still sulking about it.”
She sighed.
“That makes three,” she said. “Three daughters who decided they don't want to spend their lives on a rock farm. I suppose I can't blame them, but hiring more help is going to be difficult.”
Lyra had expected guilt, but not to that degree. She didn't know how to reply. A part of her wished she had shown up sooner. Perhaps if she'd had a quick word with Marble before dropping her off, Lyra could have prevented it.
“I'm sorry,” she said finally.
Cloudy gave Lyra a stern look.
“Don't start blaming yourself,” she said. “This would have happened eventually. You don't need to be clairvoyant to realize how big and enticing Equestria is.”
Regardless, Lyra was conflicted. She was happy that Marble had decided to carve a path for herself. But she felt responsible for leaving the Pie family in a less favorable position.
“I'm sure she'll come back,” said Lyra. “Equestria isn't that big.”
Cloudy did not look as if she'd complain either way. She seemed to have come to terms with Marble's decision very quickly.
“She knows how grateful you are to her,” said Cloudy. “I'm sure she'll be contacting you if she gets the chance.”
She smiled.
“Thank you for taking care of her,” she said.
Lyra blushed. From her perspective, it had been the opposite. Marble had provided her with something wonderful—companionship--and Lyra was eternally thankful in every possible way. She would have hit several dead ends if Marble wasn't there to keep her steady.
“I have something for you,” she said.
She levitated an object out of her saddlebag.
Cloudy Quartz stared at the object.
“A music box?” she said.
Lyra smiled gently. She'd thought about it a lot over the past few hours. The conclusion she'd come to wasn't quite ideal, but it somehow made sense to her. Lyra wanted to be free from the music.
“I don't need it,” she said. “I'm sure you could find a use for it.”
Cloudy took the music box. Fortunately, she seemed to realize that it wasn't merely a gift. She held it tentatively, as if she sensed it had been used for a ritual. But as it was only one part of something larger, Cloudy appeared to realize that the music box itself was harmless.
“Thank you,” she said.
Lyra guessed Cloudy could sense the memories—good and bad—attached to that music box. It would probably end up at the bottom of a box in a closet. It was a shame, but Lyra didn't try to dissuade Cloudy from her assumed course of action. Some memories were best stashed out of sight.
After promising to visit again, Lyra departed. Both her and Cloudy knew she most likely wouldn't be back.
Another long train ride took Lyra to the Apple family farm in Appleloosa.
She felt as if she'd been there less than an hour ago. It felt almost wrong to be returning after such a meager absence. But Lyra had marked it down in her memory. Wherever she went next, she was going to remember it down to every creaky floorboard.
It was extremely late at night when Lyra arrived. None of the Apples should be awake. However, she knew at least one of them was waiting for her.
Lyra knocked on the door of the shed. She only knocked once. If anypony was in there, they would answer immediately.
Sure enough, the door opened. Granny Smith was standing there, an affectionate smile on her face. If she held any resentment towards Lyra, it was well hidden behind a mask of tenderness.
“I'm sorry I left,” Lyra blurted out.
Granny Smith gave a short laugh.
“If I had an apple for every time I heard that, I'd have a farm,” she said with a wink.
She ushered Lyra inside.
The shed had been repaired since Lyra's last visit. The hole in the floor was gone, replaced with solid floorboards. All evidence of it had been carefully erased. Nopony would have guessed there was a well of purified water directly underneath the Apples' property.
“You must be mighty tired, young one,” said Granny Smith.
She reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a tin. She opened the metal lid to reveal a selection of cookies.
“Hungry?” she said. “They're fresh.”
Lyra hesitantly took a cookie. She took a reluctant bite. A sweet combination of cinnamon and vanilla burst on her tongue. Almost mesmerized by the flavor, Lyra grabbed three more cookies from the tin before Granny Smith put it back.
“There's something you want to ask me,” said Granny Smith.
Lyra swallowed a mouthful of cookie. There were several things she wanted to ask, but she stuck to the basics.
“How much do you know?” she said. “How much could you have told me?”
Granny Smith retrieved a pillow from one of the boxes. She blew the dust off it, then tossed it on the floor. She plopped down on her makeshift seat, a vague smile on her face.
“When I was a little one, my pa used to scare me with stories about Nightmare Moon,” she said. “He said she loved to gobble up fillies who wouldn't listen to their parents. Being the simple foal I was, I believed every word.”
She shook her head, abruptly becoming grave.
“Isn't it unfortunate?” she said. “We grow up hearing all the fables, but the truth is much worse than our silly stories.”
She looked up at the ceiling. Lyra imagined she was picturing the moon.
“Nightmare Moon isn't just a story made up to scare foals,” said Granny Smith. “She was as real as you or me. Ponies used her as a cautionary tale for so long that we all kind of forgot she was an actual living pony.”
Lyra waited, hoping there was a point.
“I remember my pa telling me about The Moon Sickness,” said Granny Smith. “The story was that one of the nightmare creatures Nightmare Moon created somehow became a living breathing disease. An incurable and horrific disease that spread like wildfire. Of course, that was only a story. Who knows if it's true?”
Lyra suddenly remembered the strange creature in Spike's journal. She remembered where she'd seen it. She'd seen it long ago, in a memory that stood on the fringe of her thoughts. It had stood there observing Lyra's happiness, unnoticed by her until after she'd awakened.
Granny Smith smiled a little.
“I learned to trust my instincts at a very young age,” she said. “I learned to be more aware of the truth, even if it didn't make a lick of sense to me.”
She turned to look at Lyra.
“It's not clairvoyance,” she said. “It's something I can't really put into words.”
Lyra knew what Granny Smith was talking about. It wasn't seeing the future, it wasn't a hunch, it wasn't being able to read ponies. It was a feeling, some indistinct line of thinking buried deep within a racing mind. Lyra had experienced it herself, but she'd never known what to do with it. Only when she began her journey did she start subconsciously depending on it.
“I reckon there's a lot of ponies like us out there,” said Granny Smith. “But most of them have no idea what to do with what they have.”
Lyra swallowed the last mouthful of cookie. She was feeling both full and sleepy, a combination she'd missed out on lately.
“Can I give you something?” she said.
Granny Smith grinned.
“I never say no to a present,” she said.
Lyra levitated the mirror out of her saddlebag. She'd managed to get rid of the spell on it. It was now merely an ordinary mirror. Perhaps less useful as a result, but Lyra didn't think Granny Smith would mind.
Granny Smith took the mirror immediately. She appeared to realize its importance without being told.
“Thank you very much,” she said.
Lyra wondered if Granny Smith could sense the mirror's entire back story. She hoped that was the case, because she didn't want to explain it all. Twilight had stashed the journal in that mirror with the intent to keep it concealed forever. How ironic that a variety of circumstances—some of which Lyra would never know—had dropped it into her hooves.
She bid Granny Smith farewell. It was late, but Lyra guessed the town's only hotel would still be open.
This time Lyra didn't say she'd be back. They both knew that if she meant to come back, she would. There was nothing more to it.
Lyra did more reflecting than sleeping that night.
No wonder there were so many gaps and remnants. The ritual had been meant for at least ten ponies. Twilight had probably had to improvise, as well as make a bunch of alterations. She'd done all of this while bodies piled up outside, fueled by the mere possibility of making it all go away.
Maybe Twilight had made it all go away. Maybe the Moon Sickness was gone for good.
There was no Ponyville. There had been one, but unforeseen circumstances had wiped it from existence. The ponies were gone too, although they had been reborn and rebuilt by the same magic that had been used to erase the town. An imperfect solution—Lyra being living proof of that—but nevertheless a solution.
But she was alright with there being no Ponyville. She was alright with being a copy of a pony who'd perished in that very town. The remnants might always exist to remind her of what had once been. However, Lyra could distance herself from those.
What do I want now? Lyra wondered.
To forget? Yes, but there was more. Burying the memories wasn't enough, simply because she couldn't. Lyra had gone on this journey willingly. The consequences and the information were unshakable.
But if Lyra couldn't forget, at least she could be with somepony who could help her cope. Somepony who might understand her pain. Somepony who wouldn't ask Lyra to keep filling in gaps.
She closed her eyes and rolled over onto her side in bed.
Lyra was tired of running, tired of squinting at pieces of information. She just wanted an ending.