Books freeze time.
With the fictional, reach a given chapter and the protagonist will always be in the same situation. They will have already suffered a given number of losses, there is still more which can be sacrificed or stolen, and the next danger lies before them. The same danger as the last time, and this will never change. The story can have twists, turns, unexpected reveals and final explanations which lay out where all of the little clues had been hidden — but once read, it will proceed down a single path forever. It takes a certain amount of love to repeatedly follow a trail for which one knows the ultimate destination, especially when the sights never vary. This is here, that is there. A procession of half-internal images which occur in a given order, with no changes allowed. It’s a quality which used to deeply offend the dying entity in the tower: at least with a verbal telling, there was the chance to spontaneously throw in a fresh lie. If only to see how the audience would respond, and the librarian’s reactions tended to be the most amusing. They never found that first degree of connection before he made his decision, and he would have been surprised to learn how much time she had spent in weeping.
But with books which retell history... in a way, that can be worse. The past is frozen: something else which used to irritate him to the core of the once-cohesive storm. Nothing any known entity can do will alter so much as a second of it. Even the time travel spell only allows about thirty seconds of witnessing what once was, a single trip for each user, and so it has almost no purpose at all.
(Almost. The sisters have used it. They were among the first to do so, and consider that half-minute to have been among the most essential of their lives. The chance which came after all hope of final contact had ended.)
The book which records history will show you what was. Never what could be or should have been. The reader’s cry of alarm will not echo backwards across the decades to give the doomed a single vital second of extra warning. One second might have changed so much, and... nothing in the frozen world can be altered. Ink forms a barrier more imperturbable than diamond.
Turn the page. Look at the first word, and the ibex is a minute away from dying.
Forever.
She will die on the mountain and in that, she will find the final link to her own species. Just about all of them have been born here, virtually every last one spends their entire lives on the slopes, and death creates the last connection to their homeland.
Ibex seldom think of themselves in terms of the other species, not even for the sake of comparison: for the most part, they are the ibex, and there is nothing else quite like them in the world. But there are two exceptions, and one comes from the earth ponies. Ibex tales go deeper than most, and so there are whispers of something called the contract. A pact made with the world itself: to emerge into life, to labor as caretakers of the land, and in the end, to return. There’s something about that which the ibex can respect, because they feel the same way about the mountains. They are here, upon the slopes. The stories suggest they always have been, at least to the extent which stories can capture. Go back far enough and the stories stop — but where words end, there still might have been ibex. Perhaps there was simply nothing worth talking about yet.
They seldom travel. They almost never leave, and those who do are regarded as the strangest of their kind: in some ways, barely ibex at all. Because the other comparison which the mountain dwellers will allow is with the buffalo and a society rife with traditions which exist on the installment plan. A buffalo doesn’t have a ceremony: they have a ritual leading into a rite that, if completed successfully, allows you to start thinking about whether to conduct the ceremony. And every bit of this endless stretching of time was deliberately forced, because buffalo are prone to act on impulse. There is no gap they cannot hurdle, as long as there’s a hasty conclusion on the other side of it. Their entire culture was created in a desperate attempt to force the species into collectively slowing down and in this, the effort has found some degree of success. (It also produces an endless series of those who leave it, because couples which truly love each other can’t always stand in one place for the sixty hours required for legal proof.) A buffalo considers no tradition to be real unless you can trace it back across twenty generations to the one who came up with it in the first place, and whoever’s drawing the line had better possess exceptionally steady control over their jaw.
Ibex can almost respect that. The core idea is there. It’s just that... for an ibex, that’s not going far enough. If the creator of a tradition lived recently enough to be identified, then those who’ve been dead for centuries are still young enough to be questioned. Ibex traditions begin at the point where history fades out.
They recognize (or feel they do) that there are likely two reasons for this. Their culture was either born in the Discordian Era, where all reliable tales twist into jumbles of syllables and screams — or it predates that time, having emerged from that part of history which exists almost solely as myth: the days before all of the true tales were broken. Rendered into nothing more than chaos.
They just don’t feel it matters.
Ibex, and the mountains, emerged on the other side. Intact. Certainly more so than any number of other species and locations were when the chaos storms ended, especially the equines who are still trying to get control of their own land. And if ibex ways brought them through all of that, saw them to the end of the worst that could ever be — then why do they need to change? Traditions, reliable actions, repeated patterns of thought: all of those things kept them stable.
The ibex do not change, or so they tell themselves. A species which views stability as survival is often all too ready to treat the new as death. But they also refuse to recognize that what they see as their history is constantly slipping across the slopes of time. Tolle Hörner was the greatest of them, the one which lived in the time unknown and created the rules which dictate just about every moment of their lives: how they farm, fight, and love. He fought in every battle and made every sacrifice for his people. He died a thousand times, because myths have a way of doing that. And on the very rare occasion when an ibex comes up with something new, the innovation is questioned. Viewed with deep suspicion. The same can be said for its creator, because ibex aren’t supposed to be doing that. The fresh arrival will be kicked a thousand times in the name of testing: on the worst days, this may also apply to the creator. And if it somehow catches on, finds a place to stand on the slopes while demonstrating it will never slip — then ibex culture absorbs it. And in a few centuries, the no-longer-new will be beyond questioning, because as it turns out, Tolle Hörner started that too.
It has been a mere one hundred and forty-eight years since the events of that day, and so this death has not been assigned to him. Perhaps it never will be. Only the greatest deeds are absorbed by those curling horns, and while the sacrifice was great and noble... it is hard for them to see as something an ibex would have done.
They honor her, for she saved the world. But she did so by acting as something other. They stay in the mountains, because to leave is to risk becoming like her.
They don’t understand.
She is a minute away from death, and she can feel the endless weight of their eyes. The armor does an exceptionally poor job of deflecting gazes: if anything, worn on her body (it had to be customized, and the helmet is unique), it pulls those intangible impacts in. She simply holds her place near one edge of this particular terrace: the part closest to the mountain, near a natural shallow trench in the stone, and allows her stability to absorb the blows.
Nothing her species can do will make her change position, even down to the smallest eyeblink. The Princess has come to the mountains, and Blitzschritt is standing guard.
None among her squad is particularly happy about this part of the trip. Yes, it says something for the alicorn to have been invited to stand upon this terrace. For starters, it means that the relationship between the nations is better than it’s ever been.
(It will never be so strong again.)
Just about no one who isn’t an ibex ever enters the terraces, because they are the key to ibex survival. An ibex can take root upon stone. The same cannot be said of their food. Farmable soil is a commodity at this altitude, and the ibex don’t descend to where it’s more plentiful because... well, she asked that once and got The Look. She’s been on the receiving end of The Look for just about anything in her life which ended in a question mark, and swears it’s worse when it comes from round pupils. (She’s still getting used to those.) But the only answer she got was that if Tolle Hörner hadn’t done it, then why should any of his descendants?
Descendants who won’t descend. (She was the only one who found that funny. No one on her mountain has ever let her forget that she said it out loud.) But she suspects that the real reason is that once you get closer to the base, you find the other sapient species. On the slopes, the advantages all go to the ibex. Descend, and it’s closer to — she’s also the only one who found this funny — level ground. She thinks they’re just avoiding competition, and it’s from fear of finding a way to lose.
The terraces are natural formations on the mountain: in this particular location, there are six of them at varying heights, each about the size of a hoofball field, close enough for ponies to jump between if they don’t mind a lot of stinging in all four knees upon landing. (She can just walk down the slopes. Her fellow Guards never get tired of seeing her defy gravity that way, and they will never see it again.). All have been emptied of additional quadruped presence for this visit. They have enough soil to support crops, and the ibex labor carefully to make sure the nutrients are never drained. Without the terraces, the ibex would face a choice: death or descent. And to just about all of them, those options represent nothing more than two different ways of spelling the same word.
The terraces are vital.
The terraces are the heart from which ibex existence flows.
The terraces are life.
The terraces are sacred.
And the Princess was invited to trot within them, at the side of the herd queen.
The Princess was extremely honored. Right up until she saw the tradition-mandated raiment.
Which was also the moment when the Guards began to collectively sweat.
Ibex tradition says that when leaders meet upon the terraces, ‘they do so with horns blunted’. The Princess only has one horn, and it’s still been treated in just about the same way: wrapped in soft fabrics and winding ribbons, only without the adjustments for a backwards curve. The herd queen has been adorned in similar fashion, because that’s part of the tradition. It’s just that for the ibex leader, the extensive metal wires and jewels which set off the look don’t serve as a barrier to magic. It might potentially take a few precious seconds before the Princess could dislodge enough of the covering to cast anything, and it brings the most vital entity in the world a little closer to the realm of helplessness.
Most of the remainder for that terrifying distance was crossed by the equally-traditional garb. ‘We stand under the weight of peace,’ after all, and in this case, that means the ceremonial trappings drape so far down the alicorn’s sides as to completely cover the wings. The straps which lock the heavy fabric in place by passing under her belly and barrel aren’t exactly helping.
There’s a double-edged hoofblade in play here. The ibex aren’t asking anything of her that they wouldn’t ask of anyone else in the world. But the fact that they would ask it of anyone else means they can’t see why it might be a bad idea to ask it of her. The Princess cannot enter the terraces unless she conforms to tradition, she felt that making a deeper connection with the ibex was worth the risk, it makes her somepony who’s willing to take a chance if doing so renders the world that much better and in this case, it also makes her into a very large earth pony who’s wearing some rather itchy decorations. The semi-tangible tail only stopped twitching with discomfort four minutes ago, but there’s only one ibex who knew to look for that tell in the first place.
The Princess is two-thirds of the way up the mountain, standing on the final piece of terrain which is remotely safe for pony occupancy: the rocks grow more unstable at higher altitude, and it’s only ibex presence which freezes them long enough to allow safe passage. While unable to fly, quickly weave pegasus techniques, cast a unicorn working at speed, or counterspell. That is how much she values this meeting, and so that is also the exact degree to which the Guards have been terrified for the three weeks which led up to it.
And the Guards include Blitzschritt. The living link between ponies and ibex.
( She has less than a minute to live.)
Her colleagues consider this to be an exceptionally grey day on the mountain: she heard a few of them grumbling during the air carriage ride. (Ibex tradition just barely allowed for the use of an air carriage, and the old ways mostly seem to be treating it as a rather solid cloud which happens to have reins attached.) She tried explaining how everything at this level can be described with one word: more. Sun feels brighter, because you’re that much closer to it. The air is crisper (and lungs which are about to stop working forever are delighting in the feel of proper air for the first time in years). When you’re cold — well, if you’re cold, you’re probably a pony. But there are highly-active storms in the area — some of the other grumbles concern how nopony was allowed to clear things out — and so what light remains is in fact on the grey side. Every so often, the soft discussion between herd queen and Princess (whose slow tour of the highest terrace is now bringing them close to Blitzchritt’s post) has to pause in order to let the echoes of nearby thunder fade.
The only ibex Guard has been doing what so many of her fellows occasionally engage in: keeping careful count of the seconds between any visible flash and the follow-up boom. The storm is around them (and a little too close), but not upon them.
It wouldn’t really matter if the rain hit. When viewing the concept from a cultural perspective, ibex don’t understand ‘rescheduling’ or ‘postponement’. You set a time on the calendar, and then you do whatever is necessary to make sure that event comes to pass. Thus is stability created. There are myths about ibex who managed to attend meetings after their death. It’s also generally accepted that the ibex afterlife is exactly like the living one, except the mountains are higher and you get a better quality of grass.
Blitzschritt is hoping that’s wrong. She’s unusual in many ways. For starters, she went down. She recognizes a concept which very few of her kind have ever voiced, even in the silent safe one which stays inside her at all times. It’s called ‘boredom’. Life is more interesting when you go down, because it’s more varied. She’s hoping that journey will also give her access to a better quality of afterlife, or at least one with different kinds of terrain. She’d like to get an ocean, because she got to travel across it once. Sailing was interesting, at least once the vomiting stopped. Stability doesn’t seem to mean a lot when the whole world is moving. It reached the point where she tried to use her magic on the water itself, and... well, it turned out that rendering one patch of sea motionless has a way of redirecting the energies surrounding it.
She was forgiven, eventually. After the rest of her squad watched her dry off absolutely everything.
The Princess has almost reached her, and smiles gently during the last stage of the approach. The herd queen — won’t look at her. Blitzschritt serves as the link — but no ibex understands why that link was ever forged. She drinks in the air of her home because the other option is to bask in the world’s most awkward silence. None dare to call her deviant with the Princess about, and so they say nothing at all.
They recognize what she has achieved and after her death, they will honor her — in their way. But they don’t understand her. They will never comprehend the events of the next few seconds, for she has less than twenty now. The choice.
The choice which never was.
The Princess has just spotted the herd queen’s reaction. It strikes the alicorn as something which has to be dealt with, because her Guard has come home and it would be preferable if someone made that feel like a good thing. So she starts to talk, keeping her tones soft and subtle. About how without Blitzschritt to show her how the bridge could be built, it never would have come this far —
They’re good words, especially when considered as the last ones she will ever hear. But they’re interrupted by a flash, which is followed by the usual burst of thunder. Too closely: the storm is closing in —
— but there are times when lightning strikes ahead of the storm.
The next bolt hits the mountain. Strikes it some distance directly above their terrace, where the rocks are unstable and only ibex can tread in safety. That environment receives a single jolt of change.
And then the boulders are falling.
Tumbling down the mountain, coming directly towards Blitzschritt and herd queen and Princess. Accelerating with every second, speed adding to effective mass, and there are Guards all over the terrace trying to respond. But the unicorns cannot combine their strength, and no single pony among them can manage that much weight. Reaching out to grab the Princess and pull her back is easier, but there’s too many boulders and the entire terrace is the impact zone. Pressure carries from the pegasi are ineffective against such a broad back. Teleporting her to safety would require somepony who was capable of both escorting and bringing along her level of mass: it might have been possible if not for the literal weight of ceremony pressing a full bale against the white fur.
Blitzschritt is aware of every last tenth-bit of it. Part of her even recognizes that it was just bad luck at the worst possible time, because when somepony has lived for so long, most of the long odds catch up eventually. She knows it will take precious seconds for the Princess to free herself from traditions to the point where escape is possible, and those will be the last seconds in which the cycle of Sun and Moon will exist.
The world will not end immediately. Momentum will maintain in the orbiting bodies for a few hours, and then... one half of the planet will slowly begin to freeze. The remainder will gain heat, slowly accumulating to the point where the burning begins and never ends. And in time, all will die.
There are those who will describe it as making a choice. The ibex ultimately understand her decision: just not how anyone of their blood could have made it. Instinct should have taken over, and that voice would have dictated a different outcome. So it must have been a choice.
It could be said that no one could be a Guard if they couldn’t make that choice, and any who voice that opinion are wrong.
There are boulders tumbling down the mountain, and an ibex doe who spent the early part of her life on the slopes sees where the first impact will take place. Just about all of them are following that same initial channel: that natural minor shallow trench in the rock. Those are the ones which will bury the occupied terrace. They’ll potentially spread out in a cascade once they reach the bottom, but the main entrance is in a single place, just a few body lengths away.
It might be possible for others to deal with the outliers. Or it might not. It doesn’t matter, because only the Princess is important.
Blitzschritt moves. Not very far. Just enough to get in front of the channel, at the moment before gravity finishes the first part of its cruel work. The last gaze she ever feels upon her is that of the Princess, desperate and frantic and full of apologies which never find the chance to be voiced.
She faces the landslide. The singular helmet, cut for two backwards-curving horns, lifts just enough to allow her to stare down her own death.
And then she roots.
The unicorns can’t raise shields in time, and the boulders might penetrate such protection even after the construct had hardened. There is no pegasus wind which would be strong enough to help. The earth ponies among the Guard... they desperately try whatever they can, without her knowing, and none of it works: the rock is too solid to respond quickly, and there is nothing they can do about gravity in that which is already moving.
But she is an ibex, the first and last of her species to serve in the Guard, and they tested the strength of her magic as best they could when there was just about nothing to measure her against. Every moon found her squad learning a little more about what she could truly do, and even she might not have understood how much power she truly possessed. Especially when it came to giving the last of herself, in the final moment before her death.
The heart of ibex magic is stability. The manifestations of that power can vary by the individual — but in a culture so dedicated to remaining the same, very few explore the full extent of their capabilities. Creativity can be directed by traditions, or it can be stifled. And she was very creative indeed, in the final seconds of her life.
She takes her stance, at the bottom of the channel, in a position which would have her receive the first impact. She stood against the falling world. The first, largest boulder. The one which would roll over her, crush her in the instant before it went on to end the cycle forever.
It hits her. Bale-tons of mass slam into the armor, and the amount of kinetic energy which conducts to flesh is enough to kill her long before factoring in the weight. None truly saw her eyes in that last moment, and so there were none who could say if she died in that instant, or somehow hung on for a few more seconds. If the strength of her will had anchored magic to mountain on a level which persisted beyond death, or whether she simply refused to die for a few crucial heartbeats.
They could not see her eyes.
They only saw the first, largest boulder stop.
For she was an ibex, and she would not be moved.
The next boulder crashes into the first, and the combined mass still cannot shift the small body. Another comes in behind that one and because the angle of impact isn’t quite as true, winds up tumbling off to the right. It falls onto the next possible target: a lower terrace. Soil fountains at the point of impact, begins its own tumble down the mountain. Crops are crushed. The boulders are going left and right because they cannot go forward, they find other things to kill, and it means the food supply is being wiped out.
Seconds. Mere seconds from beginning to end, and it’s possible that she was dead for most of it. But the Guards and Princess hang onto their desperate hope for one more breath as the last, smallest boulder comes to a dead stop in the channel and the sounds of crushing demise go on below. Right up until the moment when the little body falls.
Five of the terraces have been destroyed. (If she had not made her stand, it would have been one.) It will take years of free offerings from the Princess to keep the mountain’s population alive, longer before farming can begin again. Earth ponies cannot help, because soil which is magically enhanced loses its charge after some time without their presence and in any case, the ibex will not allow them to step onto what is now defiled land.
But the Princess lives. The cycle goes on.
There are those who say Blitzschritt couldn’t have been a Guard if she hadn’t been capable of making that choice, and they are wrong.
She couldn’t have been a Guard if she saw it as a choice at all.