If nothing else, at least being the only pony around meant Daring could fly. Windrose was an earth pony. She was hardy. She could get back, no problem. She’d be fine.
It was as unconvincing now as it’d been yesterday. At least Daring remembering Windrose was a good sign.
Daring woke up feeling woozy, like she’d been sleeping on a merry-go-round. At first, nothing seemed familiar, and she had to look at the sun three times before she was convinced it was in the right spot. But after a quick meal vaguely resembling breakfast, she packed up in as orderly a manner as she could.
With her supplies hitched over her back, she looked north, then south. One way led to her goal, the other to safety. Fortune favored the bold, but was she pushing her luck too far? She’d been lucky so far in life, but every adventurer was lucky until the one time they stepped on the wrong pressure plate, camped beneath the wrong overhang, grabbed for the wrong rock on the cliff face. She still had no idea of what she’d run into. Maybe-
No. She’d come too far and she only needed to worry about herself, now. She was so close. She needed to head north.
Daring cringed at how rote and generic that sounded, but she was flying north before she realized it.
She was flying slowly and still going faster than she would’ve been on foot. The miles whisked by and the end of the valley approached. The mountains were closing in around her; it seemed part of the reason the forest was getting denser was simply because there was less space for trees to grow in. Daring couldn’t make out anything irregular on the ground. She wasn’t that surprised. If she found anything, it’d almost certainly be right at the end of the valley. It always was. The universe liked to be dramatic that way.
Daring absently looked back over her shoulder. Nothing. She couldn’t see anypony. There had to be something she could do to make sure she remembered Windrose on the off chance she got swallowed up by the valley. The bad terms they’d parted on didn’t mean she deserved to be forgotten about. But it had to be indirect. If it was obvious, it might get changed if Windrose vanished.
Then Daring got an idea: write some banal entry in her journal and hide Windrose’s name in there somehow. The first letter of each line, maybe. At least that way, some part of her would survive. And if it didn’t work, what would she lose besides a minute? Daring folded her wings and dropped into a clearing.
The trees loomed above her, trying to block out the sky. The wind grabbed at her book in an effort to turn the pages. When she took the pen in her mouth, the cold screamed into her throat to make her shake. Daring didn’t pay any attention to them. Her mind was flying away as she came up with a proper entry. It’d look strange, but that was half the idea: to draw attention to its oddness, get her to look closer. When she was finally ready to write her message, she popped the cap off the pen.
But something felt off about the book when she pressed the nub to the paper. She didn’t know what until she took a closer look at the pages: her bookmark had been placed far too close to the end for some reason. And she was sure she’d put it in the right place last night. She shook her head and flipped back a page, just in case.
Her own writing screamed back at her from where there should’ve been nothing.
I must be sleepwriting again. I can’t remember anything in the previous pages.
There was more to it than that, but Daring didn’t bother reading it. Her eyes went back and forth over that one line, over and over, as her mouth slowly dried up. She hesitantly flipped back again.
I’m missing time. I remember nothing of-
She leafed back through the journal…
Something’s up. I can’t recall-
…more and more quickly…
I didn’t write that, at least not that I can-
…as the sound slowly leaked out of the world…
Nothing makes sense. I should remember-
…with each new entry.
How long have I been in here, to write all-
And she wasn’t even halfway back.
Daring slammed the book shut, almost threw it away, then changed her mind at the last moment and stuffed it into her bags. The pen rolled away and was forgotten. She didn’t bother looking at the rest of her supplies for any signs of lost time. She didn’t need to. She’d seen enough, one way or another. She’d have to be an idiot to not turn around after seeing that. Maybe she already was an idiot; she hadn’t followed Windrose yesterday. She turned south, flared her wings, and-
-didn’t take off. She was so close to the end. She could see the end of the valley. If she was doomed anyway, why not go all the way? If she had to choose between vanishing and learning the secret of Needle Vale before vanishing, she’d pick the latter, every time. She needed to head north.
But she still remembered Windrose. She might not be doomed if she turned around.
But to give up now?
Slowly closing her wings, Daring rubbed her temples. The cognitive dissonance physically hurt. She knew she needed to go home, but she wanted so badly to find what was up with Needle Vale, but, but, but. She took a step south, and the completionist in her screamed for leaving something unfinished. She took a step north, and she remembered how stupid she was being. For all the logic she applied, she simply couldn’t get rid of the idea of reaching the end of the valley. It was like a catchy song: it ran through her head, over and over and over, until she couldn’t help but sing along with it, no matter how much she didn’t want to.
And yet… really, aside from that idea, nothing was stopping her from just turning around and walking (or flying!) back home. Right? She’d wanted to head north from the beginning, after all. Right? She wasn’t going to let some bad ideas stop her. Right? She’d come so far — even the landscape was changing as the trees got hemmed in by the narrowing valley — it’d be a shame to turn back now. Right?
She needed to head north.
She needed to head north.
And so, in spite of her own protests and better judgment, Daring headed north.
Her wings beat with a strange automaticity. Even as the valley narrowed and the end approached, Daring couldn’t get any more joy from the idea of discovery. By now, it was just the rote action of moving forward to see this stupid journey through to the end. She felt like she had a ring in her nose that was constantly jerking her forward. Whenever she looked back, her own head screamed at her to stop. It was just getting to the finish line. Nothing more.
The trees rolled past beneath her, sticking up like quills on a porcupine. Daring could hardly see the ground anymore, simply from the density of the branches. She didn’t look down much. There wasn’t much to see. Not far ahead, the walls of the mountains slammed together into a sharp “V” shape. More trees climbed their steep, craggy slopes. It was a relief, in a way. Daring could stop, her curiosity satisfied, and turn back around. And all she needed was for there to not be anything on the ground.
There was something on the ground.
Daring probably wouldn’t have seen it if her stupid adventuring eyes weren’t attuned to that sort of thing. Ahead of her was a particularly steep, particularly smooth section of mountain. Far below her, the valley floor climbed irresistibly into foothills. Winding beneath the trees away from the cliff was a thick, dark line. Possibly a path of some sort. It dead-ended at a convenient clearing. Purely on instinct, Daring folded her wings back and dove.
She landed at the base of an ancient stone staircase, roughly made, starting at nothing and stretching towards the mountains, towards the northern end of the valley. It was long enough that she couldn’t see the end of it; trees obscured it as it continued up and up and up.
Daring breathed heavily. You didn’t need to be an adventurer to know this was a bad sign. Curiosity was overridden by her survival instinct. She was going to turn back.
In the unending second before she put her hoof on the first step, she thought clearly, WHY am I doing this? Why can’t I stop me?
The steps were smooth, but from weathering or polish, Daring couldn’t say. Whatever technique had been used to fit them together was unfamiliar to her; it almost looked like the properly-shaped stones had just been dropped in place. She stumbled up them, equal parts thrilled and terrified at what she’d find. But for what felt like ages, she found nothing. Except for more stairs.
The steps zigged and zagged their way up the foothills and through the trees. The branches above her grew closer together until it was like they were weaving themselves into a roof. Daring climbed and climbed and climbed. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath began coming in gasps. Still, the mountain approached behind the trees, step by step, inch by inch, until finally it was upon her. For a moment, as the cliff loomed above, it seemed the staircase was going to stop right at the rock wall and go no further.
No such luck. A doorway was standing the cliff. It was hard to tell whether it’d been carved or built. Strange, abstract patterns Daring couldn’t make heads or tails of decorated the frame. The only light inside was from bits of sunlight that managed to claw their way through the trees. The portal yawned open, so invitingly, so threateningly. She walked in and was swallowed whole. The corridor beyond extended into the dark, revealing nothing.
No.
Daring finally managed to stop walking by locking her legs in place. It hurt. She didn’t care. Deep breaths. Closed eyes. Utter focus. She was not going to walk forward.
One step at a time. Left front hoof, one foot to the left and a few inches back. Right rear hoof, one foot to the right and a few inches forward. Right front hoof, one foot to the left and a few inches back. Left rear hoof, one foot to the right and a few inches forward. Repeat.
Daring blanked out her thoughts as best she could, focusing solely on turning around. She could see the light filtering through her eyelids as she moved. When it was at its brightest, she opened her eyes and took a step forward.
But she wasn’t walking out. She was still walking in. Cold blue torches flickered in sconces ahead of her. She looked over her shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, she could make out the bright rectangle of the door. She already knew she’d never reach it.
The world lurched beneath her as Daring slouched forward. She wasn’t walking straight. She didn’t know if she was trying to and couldn’t, or if she was trying not to and being forced forward. She stumbled, fell against the cold wall, pushed herself drunkenly up. The hallway was growing. Or was it shrinking? No, neither. Both. Definitely both. Daring walked. The boot-muffled impacts of her feet on the floor were the only sounds, but they were plenty loud. Definitely loud enough to block out her forced breathing. Flickering blue light danced across the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Daring’s shadow felt delayed by half a second. It was hard to tell. She swayed into the other wall, stood back up, and continued.
After an instantaneous hour, the corridor opened into a room. Daring staggered in and collapsed. She lay panting on the stone. It was nice and cool. She didn’t want to get up. But she was forced to her feet and took in the room. It was large and circular, with a domed ceiling, like some sort of chapel. The walls had sconced, blue-flamed torches illuminating a relief that stretched all around the room. Daring couldn’t tell what it depicted. She didn’t care, either. A tall dias sat in the center of the room, an altar in the center of the dias.
Altars were good. Altars were bad. Altars were everything. Altars were nothing.
Daring’s legs walked her to the dias. Her wings flapped, bringing her onto the stone. Up close, the altar didn’t look like anything special: a large, rough slab of stone, completely clean. Nothing was carved into its surface: no glyphs, no pictograms, no reliefs, no letters. Daring’s hoof brushed over the altar’s top, feeling the tiny ridges in the stone. This was it. This was the heart of Needle Vale. It had to be. She could feel it in her bones.
And yet, after all this time, Daring’s expedition had still been for naught. Nothing was waiting for her. Nothing was on the altar.
But finally, finally, her own foolish mind had stopped pushing her onward. Finally, if she was lucky, she could turn around, rejoin… Windrose? Yes, that was her name. At least Windrose was still around. Now, if only the temple and the valley would let her leave. The whole place was making her skin crawl. Paranoia told Daring to take one last look at the altar, just in case. As before, there was nothing to be afraid of.
Nothing scrutinized her with colorless eyes. Nothing looked into her mind with impunity. Nothing spoke with a voice like a gale. Nothing told her what she would do. Nothing moved into her. Nothing overtook her. Nothing subsumed her. Nothing ate away at her. After all, she’d been chasing nothing since the very beginning.
As with all who had come before, when Daring Do left Needle Vale, she brought nothing out with her.