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Gentle Touch together with Plum Jam were next to step over the edge. The mirror was full of shimmering lights. Plum lingered among them, jumping, kicking and pushing away living orange sparks — the largest of them were the size of her head, the smallest no larger than her namesake fruit. The lights rang iridescently and whispered in response, ricocheting from the invisible floor or walls aside or scattering into small sparks. Plum caught one of them with her head and bounced it for a while along her steps — up and down, up and down. Then she nudged her fireball towards Gentle, and it would be simply impolite to miss the pass. Sparkles got into her nose and over her tongue, Gentle sneezed and laughed, but did not let herself forget their purpose and direction.
They kept going more or less along the course, farther from the vault, closer to something else, pushing lights aside, coming up with rules for new games as they went to pass the time and the road of unknown length — games that nopony would ever know about — and diverting from them just as freely. By herself, Gentle Touch would rather not indulge in that, but Plum’s joy was infectious.
If not for Gentle, the younger pony could have stayed here for a very long time — even with an older companion she still sometimes stopped, her ear tilted towards a particularly large spark, listening to its voice. Gentle, not forgetting about the game, still tried to lead her smallest team approximately forward. For several times Gentle closed her eyes, trying to find anypony living, and saw not threads but scales of feelings in each of these sparks. Barely outlined experiences, impressions, the door outside where cold and darkness lie, but my mom is already waiting for me on the street... high swing for the skies, heart skips a beat... an instant of confusion, where is the door... oh, I'm visiting...
The sparks were glad to see them here. Gentle began trying to pay attention to each one; she tried to hear, understand, accept every spark — but there were too many of them, and, responding to attention, they were rolling ever closer to Gentle. Sparks covered her legs like a pile of well-washed fruit, rose to her stomach, and the memory coalesced to a few semi-coherent parts.
I'm a bad pony when I can't be the winner...
First a dance space, then a teleport — starting with the uniform, as that one mistake was enough, then another teleport, change clothes, and to the dueling range...
...In a bad mood to swim? What do you mean, bad mood? Will you tell your drowning sister that you are not in the mood, young lady? Well, I know she can swim, I mean this in a general sense, as an example! What's so funny, dear? No, you tell me what's funny right now, and look me in the eye!
Gentle shook her head, and they moved on with less distraction. There was a pony behind the sparks, or maybe a few of them, but most likely one — and Gentle was afraid to drown in her orange. The personal willpower to fight with any competitor and inevitably win — to get attention and success — was there. Even in this dissipated state, the energy was there. Who knew what this soul would do if given actual strength?
Plum was balancing another large orange sphere on her back, the light’s color noticeably brighter than the shade of Gentle's coat. For three beats or a little more, Gentle envied this brightness for some reason; likely because the spark was quite accustomed to being envied.
Soon the sparks were left behind — so slowly that it was impossible to say 'This is the last one' and to experience the fear of the deepening darkness. Anyway, the fluffy orange sphere on Plum's back continued to shine with quiet confidence, knowing its strength.
Of course, if Gentle could judge, disapprove or condemn; if Gentle were older; if Gentle could decide who would be admitted to a school; if Gentle would distribute diplomas and certificates; if Gently would hold keys to the closed wing of the castle library; if Gentle would be hiding a special prize for the best student in a quest cache somewhere in the city, then it could be different.
But there was nothing that Gentle Touch could actually do and the spark was content.
They stepped from the limbo into the plains leading to a cold ocean nearby; so far away that it could be barely seen but clearly heard.
The sky was full of dark clouds; Plum jumped in place and sent the last spark flying. It flew up and forward in an arc, slowed down, stopped, and did not fall. Looking around in the unfamiliar orange light, both direct and reflected from the clouds, Gentle saw rows of counters, slightly uneven, spreading out to cover long tables between them. The light accentuated every crack, every dimple in the rough wood, right down to the chips on the plates. The paint was gone from the cutlery, and a trail of ants wandered over the fruits as a living blood.
Not a single pony was around, and the smells were muffled — even fruits and spices, from apples to mangoes, from cinnamon to garlic, were barely felt in the air, mixed waves touching her nose along with a light tickling breeze. The land, partially covered with boards, but fertile — Gentle felt its depth and seeds in the soil — was waiting only for care and for the light of White Moon to grow. It was trembling underhoof, as from a distant quake.
Plum sobbed and sat down, looking at Gentle with blue eyes wet and wide open.
“What happened?” Gentle asked, turning to her and sitting down too.
Plum did not speak immediately.
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When the lands of the Jam family joined the Metropolis, the future Plum Jam grandmothers just had graduated from the school, and the eldest of her future great-grandmothers, Honey Jam, was definitely not going to admit that from now on her ancestral fields, reaching to the horizon from six sides and to the ocean from the three remaining ones, are part of the city, have a serial number and a place on the map, and— she could not say what exactly 'and'. She just had a gut feeling that it would not end well.
Some outsider pony would likely be saying that nothing has changed even three nines of rounds later. The Net, almost invisible from below, stretched over the fields, making it possible to leave the house and meet with neighbors without checking the strength of the Moons by the phase clock, and for the first time in generations of Jam, ever, nopony became either Changed or a Herald. All good, nothing bad.
Honey Jam knew better. The grass in the fields was conspiring with the city, the apples and leaves were getting smaller, the buyers had to be asked to repeat what they just said because of their accent, with an attitude as if it was she who was illiterate. From the side of the city — from all sides, because the Metropolis was now everywhere she looked — new settlers entered her lands, even if they followed the rules of grandmother Honey.
But it was completely different, not like before, and alien colors were waking Honey Jam from her light sleep more and more often — the even, dead shine of demarcation lamps on rare posts and along irrigation canals. ‘Here you are, dear, and here are your reputable guests, and please avoid troubles.’
There was a time before she finally understood how status works, and a time before she learned to use its gifts. When the standard carriage did not suit her at all, the polite clerk offered her another, air one, with a small surcharge. She doubted, consulted with her foals who despite being well in middle age were ‘forever little’ to her, and tried to convince them that there was no need for that.
She asked the land if it does not mind a carriage around. It did not object to transport as long as it was not driven by wheels, and the long trade trip for seeds and saplings throughout the big country was worth it. After it, for a few rounds after, Honey Jam wrote to her new distant friends and partners, boasting unrestrained of how especially strong her new trees were, how quickly they grew and started to bear fruit much earlier than her old apple trees.
And yet, appreciating the joy and being grateful for it, Honey Jam suspected all her life throughout to her death that she had been deceived in some clever way.
Death did not take her in a beat, but neither was he especially late: if a pony steps far beyond the square nine of rounds, then, in general, they should know that time is near. Death crunched his bony legs on the rug at the entrance, and landmare Honey’s walk became cautious. He looked from the threshold with empty eye sockets, and great-grandmother Honey realized that she sees little now. He stepped into the living room and sipped from the offered cup, and old mare's tea tasted like ash.
She knew what was in Death’s further plans about her, and was not going to be a burden and delay leaving the house side by side with the unwelcome guest, but all the same she did not want to leave her relatives stunned and without a worthy farewell.
It would be possible to time the last meeting of the family to be in turn with the coming of the Red — ponies in current times learned to predict them quite accurately, and Honey herself could smell them in the air a few slices in advance. But in order to be polite to Metropolis, who in general — Honey sensed the truth where the truth was — did not cause Honey any real harm, the great-grandmother decided to come to Her and visit one of Her hospital sectors to die there; she chose the place to make an appointment with one of her own kin.
Thus she would be making a peace treaty with the city.
The body, and — as she hoped — the soul after that had to return back to the lands of the clan, to their own soil, to her loved ones. Great-grandmother Honey took care of this return, in order not to remain in an unnamed cemetery in an unknown sector of the Metropolis among the strangers and impolite dead in any possible case.
But before the trip to the city, she wanted to arrange a feast, gathering guests both winged and horned, relatives and friends and just good ponies from all nine sides of the country to feed them, listen to them, and make sure that life still goes on.
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Tears were over, as they always eventually are; not right away. Gentle sat opposite, at an appropriate distance of five steps, but was all ears and all wide pinkish eyes. The faint blue mesh on her irises pulsed in a smooth, comforting rhythm, but Gentle herself was silent. Neither "let's get to the point," nor "it happens to everypony," nor "I have a similar story." She was there, and that was more important than anything Gentle could say.
“I never got to her. Great-grandmother invited me by name as she did for everypony else. I saw these lines in the letter myself, I already knew how to read back then, if very slowly, so not all the letter but my part in the end. And my mom said that it is not necessary. That I should remember my grandmother healthy and strong — and by that slip I knew for sure Honey is dying. Then dad said that he would take me along... if I finish a study trimester with all nines— and I passed— and t-then it turned out that... it was too late, and even when he had told me that, it was too late. I did not read the full letter, you know, and… well, I looked for it to be sure, I found it, hidden at the far wall of the case—”
Plum froze, hiding her head between her front legs. Gentle exhaled, and continued to be silent, warm and sympathetic. Plum looked at her, and went on, her voice dry and calm, “They cut off that part of the letter where Honey called for me, you know? It was in the last lines anyway. And they told me that they didn't cut anything, I just misremembered. I am a foal, I have no right to choose for myself, they know better, and I need to study well and not upset my elders. Then they showed me a photo from the gathering, and-- since that, as if there was nothing. No grandmother, no gathering, no me. Let's turn over a new leaf, forget about that… even as they managed to visit the gathering — without me! I wished to become unbound that cycle; the wish was not granted. It does not work like that.”
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Gentle nodded, not knowing what to say. Cursory would find good words, the thought appeared, lingered, went into the void.
“Do you need to be reassured? I probably can…” Gentle asked, her tongue as dry as the resulting words.
Plum shook her head desperately, “No! But if we are here now, maybe... maybe this mirrorland wants to tell us something? Isn't there a reason that we are here, where I got the memory? And... Could you lead me so that I don't get lost?”
Gentle nodded and led her along the tables, row by row. Looking around and closing her eyes, she looked for somepony alive, to no avail. Plum was picking cherries and oranges from the tables along the way, and Gentle also ventured to try them — tasty, even juicy, but not quite alive. Nevertheless, Gentle decided to be polite, and put all the seeds in bowls and sometimes said ‘thank you’ into the air, confused and awkward.
There was no hunger or thirst, but fatigue was rising, and with each turn it was a little more difficult to move her legs, and the turns did not end; still did not; and forever. Plum at first held on to her tail, then she was by her side and maybe higher than Gentle herself, and then definitely higher and helping Gentle move on.
Gentle Touch did not stop. No matter how silly, no matter how obvious the emptiness around was... maybe I can still fix something.
As a Herald, Gentle Touch knew how to keep silent. As a pony, Gentle Touch was not very good at speaking.
“Oh, I saw her” or even “You know, it looks like we’re relatives” would not help here. Especially considering the reason for Gentle's meeting with grandmother Honey and the brevity of the date.
Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, Gentle Touch continued to lead Plum through the pale shadow of a long past family reunion. She had long held on through stubbornness alone. Then it began to fail her too.
Time stopped.
Then with a jingle it rushed on, again. Plum darted forward as a living rocket, knocking down a tall, stately, old pony of bright yellow coat and a two-tone mane out of a chair. “Grandmother!”
“Not really,” the Red said in a soft and smooth tone that crawled in the dirt. “I’d say I am very flattered. You came to my heart, dear, and share it with me now. Honey Jam tried to remember you. She knew she had forgotten somepony. She did not remember whom until it was too late.”
Gentle's legs gave way, and she sank to the dark ground. A sharp pain shot through the joints, and the Red became a barely noticeable silhouette in the dull, feeble darkness; the orange above became nothing more than a blurry spot.
“I was... deceived too. They did not ask me either. They did not ask if I wanted to be a Moon or not. They knew better what was best for me,” the Red said.
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Perhaps the Red wanted to break Plum. It wanted that for sure, even.
Plum knew that everypony deserves friendship and care. No exceptions.
Plum also knew how to leave her own troubles aside for a time, if others felt bad around her.
She helped the Red stand up, hugged it and looked straight into its eyes.
“I understand. It’s very disappointing,” Plum said. “Do you want to speak about it?”
“Not yet,” the Red shook its head, and quietly laughed as if for an unspoken joke.
Plum went along with the laugh, not turning away from swampish cyan eyes. She pressed her ears, and tried to smile, “I will stay nearby. Until you are ready to tell, or until you send us away.”
The Red twitched its ear, pulled its head back, examined Plum from a distance, “You mean I can choose now? Foolish, weak, mortal ponies. Well, then I chose. I will let you go if you promise me that you will take revenge on your parents. It will be fair and just, and it will please me and serve me. In the end, they deceived and betrayed you, and violated your and Honey's freedom of choice. Are we in agreement?” it moved to the table, saying that.
Plum did not even think, “Of course not. They are good ponies.”
“But why?” the Red raised its voice a little, “You were hurt as they exerted their power over you. This is what happened.”
Plum shook her head, “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Just no.”
The Red cut a piece of apple pie with a hornbeam of the namesake’s color; the stench of rot filled the air.
“Then you shall stay with me,” the Red decided. “Until you change your mind. By the way, Gentle Touch, don’t you want to return to the world where you have not killed anypony?”
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Gentle Touch reached the chair on the other side of the Red, leaned on it, pulled herself up, and with an effort climbed onto the chair. Her head was spinning, empty air was rustling in her chest, and her front legs trembled weakly.
She replied, looking straight to the damned one’s face, “I’d rather not. What I do, shapes me. Any such change will… erase me, I think. I have love now. Love that I forced over, but I will not surrender my future wife. And knowing you, she could very well be the price.”
Plum looked at her and then at the Red, full of concern; also, utterly fearless.
At first the three of them drank sour but passable pomegranate juice in silence, listening to the ocean-tasting wind.
Then the Red spoke to its guests.