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// Preparations 
// Story: The Mares in the Moon 
// by Flashgen 
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The history of magic is a subject I have been greatly interested in for as long as I can remember. While the majority of my studies focused on the eldritch arts that are Their domain, it was impossible as a unicorn to avoid the arcane. What filly or colt did not, eventually, learn to at least carry an object or open a door? But I was not content to let my curiosity stop at telekinesis. Magic is the birthright of my kind, and while outnumbered by other institutions in Equestria, there are many schools for unicorn sages following in the hoofsteps of great wizards like Starswirl the Bearded, Aegis Allshield, or Page Turner. 

Bit by bit both the eldritch and arcane have grown thanks to talented scholars or mages who pushed their fields forward. However, any advancement one has made on its own pales compared to the breakthroughs they have made together.

A casual observer, given a basic understanding of both fields, might describe the two as oil and water. While substances with comparable properties, they must be immiscible. The eldritch draws its power from within the user, while arcane magic is drawn and channeled from one’s surroundings. Eldritch arts are open to anyone that wishes to study them, while the arcane is limited (for now) to those with an innate physiology to draw and channel magic. Even the method of incantations differ, with eldritch spells requiring the use of Black Tongue, intent, and emotions, while arcane magic is more like mathematics: a rigid set of operations which must be followed correctly.

But these distinctions only make the mixing of the two possible to begin with. It is by channeling arcane energy that a user can define it as their own, feeding it into eldritch spells as a more lasting source of energy. It is through eldritch runes crossing and strengthening arcane ones that they can last longer, be marked as the caster’s, and be controlled from afar.

I often found my studies of the eldritch leading me to the arcane, only for that study to funnel back to the eldritch. How the two are similar yet separate, the perils of each, and most importantly for what I attempted: the practical applications of them together. Given my position as Royal Scholar, my understanding of the ways of Canterlot high society, and that I was mortal, the most practical of these applications was for protection.

With Spike taking his temporary leave from the library, I was left with only a finite amount of time to reinforce its boundaries. I began with the windows; security was paramount for any entrance, but the doors would require more complex solutions that my racing mind needed to finalize. Runes, the foundation of any lasting spell, were an important first step. 

They could be made in many ways, any method that could leave a mark or etching or drawing on a surface. Some practitioners, in an effort to conceal them, tried to work them into the natural state of things, like a pattern on a wall repeated in such a way to form the required signs. Yet each method had some peculiar variation to their use. 

Chalk, depending on the location from which it is mined, imbues specific qualities to the rune. Being close to a location of arcane power absorbs some of the energy into the chalk's structure, leaving even earth ponies able to imbue arcane magic into their runes, though without the connection to the caster. There is even the option for a unicorn to store their own magic into more pristine chalk. However, impurities and the lack of strong presses and precise strokes can weaken the potency of a rune.

Ink would have been a preferable option, though I lacked the quantity to utilize it at the time. Depending on the material on which it is inscribed, a caster can allow the ink to dissipate into the surface over time, leaving the rune’s effects to wane naturally. They can even be inscribed more easily on paper, used in simple spells that consume the page in the process. It also allows flourishes and minute detail depending on the brush or pen used. Of course, that often leads to inscription taking longer and a pristine environment being necessary to avoid the ink running before it dries.

Etching was my choice. It can be done on any surface and with a variety of implements, though some materials lead to differing effects. (I had read months ago about a scholar who, on precise lenses, could etch runes and project their effect towards the focus.) It was also possible, given the wood making up the library, to shave and grind away after their purpose was complete. Given I was not planning to stay here for much longer, it was an important fact to consider.

I retreated upstairs for a moment to grab a rod from one of my suitcases. With a lead core and an outer layer of silver, it was a unicorn’s tool. The silver easily allowed the arcane magic of a telekinetic grip to pass through it, while the lead core bounced that energy back. With fine control and focus, both of which I had, the rod vibrated, its tip buzzing and turning red with heat and potential.

The windows called for four runes, words etched in Black Tongue to channel the intent of my magic, my blood. Above was “Sense,” to look down on the threshold. To either side were “Seal,” bound together to form a link across the window, a means to secure it against being forced open or unlocked. Below was “Shield,” meant to raise should the seals fail. As much as my body could allow, I muttered the words with each etch, infusing my will upon them. From my depths came waves of power and magic and blood, flowing out of my horn, through the rod, and into the grooves I made.

While the eldritch runes drew my power, the arcane ones that followed siphoned the latent magic from the library. It was an old place of gnarled wood and roots, and it had drawn much power from the earth over the years. As I weaved arcane sigils about the walls, I cemented the connection this magic would have to me, allowing the eldritch runes an ample source from which to draw power. It took no time at all to finish with the downstairs windows, four in total: one above the desk, two more along the opposite wall, and a final one above the kitchen sink. Upstairs, I only had three to contend with: one wide window above the beds, one behind the bath, and a final viewing window opposite the spiral staircase that led to the balcony. 

Then came the more difficult task. Both the balcony doorway and the front entrance would need more particular runes. A simple seal would have to be broken time and again for myself and Spike to cross, along with any potential guests of the welcomed variety. I repeated the same patterns above and below: “Sense” to watch over and “Shield” on the floor to protect. As for the “Seal” on either side, I wove them along with other words, symbols mingling to let intention and will overlap. “Exempt,” “Friend,” and “Guest” took form in overlapping quadrants, a myriad of lesser concepts hidden inbetween. 

As “Friend” was engraved, I thought of Spike, of The Princess, of my family and colleagues. With “Guest,” I kept my focus on emotions: anxiety at receiving someone, a desire to impress, a hope that one visit would lead to two, to four, to a shift from “Guest” to “Friend.” Even if my stay would be too short for that to be possible, it was important to hold and impress that intention upon my runes.

By the time I was done, the sun had started to set. The library smelt of burnt wood, so I lit sticks of incense to lessen the impact. It was also to calm me while I thought of my last task, one that would have to wait until the night. I focused my mind on double and then triple checking my work. The lines were not perfect, as I had made them in a rush to avoid Spike walking in on the act, but they were serviceable; I knew the connection was there. I also had the chance to mask them so that they would avoid anything but a close inspection.

I felt the soft hum of magic through my horn, a growing chorus in my ears when Spike approached and opened the door. As expected, the seals lowered, allowing him to pass unabated. While the runes would not have injured him, they would have alerted him to my intentions and worries.

I couldn’t bear to do that yet. Worry is like a poison; if you fight and struggle, it spreads and infects every part of you. Relax, breathe, and you at least have time to resolve the issue before it annihilates your resolve. It is such a dangerous balancing act to avoid the entire world becoming your enemy when there are enemies everywhere. 

Spike returned with his bag full of souvenirs. Besides what he’d bought for himself, he’d found a journal and ornate quill for me, as well as a pocket watch for my brother. I thanked him for the gift and worked to prepare dinner. A simple task to focus on would help me relax after so much hurried spellwork. 

I decided to grab a book of recipes from the library, picking one that didn’t seem too complicated: braised red cabbage with apples, given the abundance of the latter that was still left in the kitchen. As the dish cooked, I took the time to prepare tea for both of us, adding a bit of milk to Spike’s and apple brandy to my own. I would need it for what I still had to do in the dead of night.

The dish was fine, at least for my first time trying to make it. I was still dealing with the aftertaste of sweets from the day before, but it managed to overpower that and reset my palette. While we ate, I looked outside, thankful to be able to see the starry night sky and the Moon above. It was a wonderful night for a walk, and I offered Spike to take one with me. It was an excellent cover to double check the effectiveness of the runes.

While we strolled through the sparsely lit streets of Ponyville, Spike entertained me with some of the things he had seen that day: souvenirs he couldn’t afford, jewelry that had caught his eye, some food he wanted me to try tomorrow. I humored him, laughing or nodding or humming in the affirmative as appropriate. My focus, truly, was within. Steady breaths, in and out, let me reach out through my blood and horn as my eyes closed. Sensations washed over me.

I felt the library, its trunk and branches and roots, the carved rooms and shelves and stairs like odd empty spaces between bones and muscle. There was heat within, cold without, the breeze against and through my hair (leaves) weathering over years against my coat (bark). There were the scents of leftover food—the sensation compared, by my brain, to smelling the pit of my stomach or the inside of my skull (a connection made to the place as one of knowledge)—the dust, the crisp night air carrying hints of earth and mud and smoke from the closest houses. My tongue recoiled at the taste of dirt, nutrients, the calmness that comes from being welcome, being needed. I heard, faint and distinct, the noise of the town around me and the library, like two copies of the same song out of time with one another by fractions of a second, and saw shapes and figures shifting in the dark, which I fought to avoid becoming malicious shades.

Opening my eyes, drawing the focus to my body, I left the library behind. The connection was secure, controlled, contained. It would not intrude upon me, but I upon it. I repeated the mantra again and again and again, solidifying it. 

As we passed a shop, I found my attention drawn to a necklace in the window. It was a bright, dazzling display, even in the dim glow of the streetlight: gems of a variety of colors, rubies and sapphires and emeralds and ambers, arranged in sweeping patterns along a silvery white chain with settings and accents of gold. It was beautiful. I considered if my mother would like it, or perhaps one of my fellow researchers back in Canterlot. I could have even offered it as a gift to The Princess or one of Her royalty; one could never have too much favor in such circles. My stomach began to twist as I recalled the letter.

“It looks simply divine, doesn’t it?” a voice behind me said. The tone and inflection was clear and almost forcefully articulate, similar to the style of speech that was common in Canterlot and by proxy much of Equestrian higher society. My mind went to tourists, and so I thought it was a conversation I had eavesdropped on, waiting for another voice to reply with “Oh, quite divine indeed” or “Yes, rather splendid.” Instead I heard a curt cough, the source now at my side.

Turning away from the window, I came face to face with a unicorn mare. Her coat was a pristine white and she had a finely styled violet mane. Tourist still seemed an appropriate label while I pushed what had been churning up my stomach out of my thoughts. I started to wonder where she was from. The mane style seemed too simple for Manehatten, so perhaps it was Trottingham, but there weren’t any other obvious tells. She certainly wasn’t dressed or saddled like most traveling socialites would be. “Yes, quite,” I replied simply before looking back at the necklace. “A bit bold, but even despite all the colors, it comes together well.”

“That is a bit overwhelming when you scrutinize it, yes, but the pattern helps to diminish the effect when you look at the whole piece. Complementary colors together, clashing ones apart. And the gold accents make them pop just a bit more than they already do. It’s a wonder what good design sense can allow you to achieve, even with what some ponies would write off as incompatible pieces.” Her tone was excited as she spoke, yet her diction didn’t falter. Her eyes shined in the streetlight, as if there were a glimmer of inspiration among the adoration.

“Certainly,” I added, an acknowledgement of being out of my depth and understanding that. I had little to say on the topic of design unless it were about a rune, or perhaps something architectural. Maybe she was a jeweler by trade if she was so knowledgeable. A quick glance showed she had three gemstones on her flank, and there was a part of the Artisan’s Quarter of Canterlot that specialized in filigree and jewelry. “I wonder if it was made here. Ponyville isn’t known for—” much of anything to me, before I came here “—jewelry, is it?”

The mare shook her head slightly, her mane tossing gently back and forth with the movements. “Not famously, no. It isn’t Canterlot or Vanhoover, and certainly not Manehatten, but just because a place isn’t famous for a trade doesn’t mean artisans can’t be found there.” There was a smile that followed the comment, making me wonder if the conversation was self-aggrandizing in a way.

“True. If knowledge is open to anyone, you only need the tools and supplies to go with it. And sometimes knowledge is enough.”

“And some things are kept… gated.” There was a momentary falter in her speech, and I wasn’t sure if it was searching for a tactful way to phrase it or some sort of remembered experience.

I could recall some personal experiences of my own. “For good reason, sometimes.”

“For Her reason; that should be good enough for rational minds.”

Worry began to bubble up. I looked down the street and saw Spike at a nearby stand. 

“Oh, were you looking to buy it? I’d hate to walk in and steal it from you.” A giggle came after her words, just enough to get across her joke without seeming too self-indulgent. I caught a smirk out of the corner of my eyes before looking directly at her.

“I…” I didn’t have to say anything. I looked away to see Spike buying something from a nearby stall. There was no danger, I had to tell myself. “I was considering it, but I don’t have much of a budget for my trip.”

“Just visiting, hmm?” There was another smirk, this time not hidden. “Of course you’re not a local, that much is obvious.” I wondered if it really was, perhaps just from the way I carried myself. “Well, I’ll not take it from you if you change your mind. It truly is a wonderful piece, but…” There was a momentary look of sadness, perhaps a bit too exaggerated, on her face. “Better somepony have it to wear than just inspiration… or worse to get a bit excited and break the thing down. Oh those ambers would look absolutely lovely on something I’ve been working on.”

I was about to reply, but she let out a gasp as she looked at a clock through the window. “Oh, heavens. There I go getting distracted. I’m terribly sorry, but I simply must be going. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a bow, deep and practiced, with her horn ending inches from the ground. I’d seen it often in Canterlot. I began to bow as well, but she turned and quickly took her leave, trotting off up the street.

Spike came back, holding an ice cream cone that he idly licked at. “Who was that?” he asked, just before his eyes too were drawn to the dazzling necklace in the window.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.” I wondered how odd it was for someone to consider it a pleasure to meet you without even introducing themselves. I tried to catch another glimpse of her, but she was already out of sight. “I think she was from Canterlot, maybe.”

“Did she recognize you?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” It would explain the pleasure on her part. I tried not to dwell on it, as it was just one interaction out of dozens since arriving in Ponyville. Besides, I needed to focus on other things.

There were only a few more stores and sights before Spike was worn out. As such, we returned to the library and Spike took his leave upstairs for the night while I remained downstairs to inspect the journal he had given me. It was high quality, with a golden clasp to keep it secured when not in use. I wondered, my mind still somewhat on the protective spells already in effect within the library, if I could enchant it to have similar protections. It would have been a costly thing for a journal; as I write in it now, I think the cost will be worth it.

I spent the rest of the night perusing a book on soothsaying techniques, another two on pony prophecy, and one more of foreign origin. I kept the reading light, restricted to authors with less cryptic styles. My timidness felt adequately awarded with yet more dead trails and fruitless findings. But I needed my wits about me, my attention sharp and ready. 

As midnight approached, I put the books away, closed the blinds on the windows, snuffed out what lamps were lit, and moved the table at the center of the room aside. A trio of candles about me was enough light, just enough for the ritual. I took a heavy swig of brandy, washed down with a glass of cider to cover the bitterness. My blood felt warm and eager.

It was only as I sat down in the center of the room, chalk ready, that I considered my doubts. I had done enough to secure the library, surely. No normal pony could attempt to cross the thresholds without my knowledge or permission. It would take a truly talented sorcerer or scholar to break in, or avoid detection at the least. Was there a need to cause harm, no, death as well? My will, however, moved ahead of my flagging rationality.

I drew the first outer circle, thick white, strong presses, marking the ground with my force and intention, an important step to secure control and establish boundaries. The second, inner circle was thinner, lighter, an invitation and lowering of inhibition to show openness. Faint lines etched between established need and want; star signs to invoke, to name, to promise, to beg; arcane runes to empower and gift inner, to protect and reinforce outer. But the sigil was only that: lines and potential. I sat there in the dim light, the nightsong of a sleeping Ponyville assaulting my ears as I traced the edges with my hoof.

Blood boiling as veins expanded beneath my skin, I felt warm and worried and doubtful. Resolve melting away, my rationality caught up and I searched for reasons in that letter. “The Princess’s gaze sees less than you think, but the Mares in the Moon look down on us all.” 

On the surface, there was no malice in those words, at least not a direct threat to harm me. Yet it stood to reason that someone powerful, with purpose and drive, knew what I was doing. Their alliances were unknown, their intentions were hidden, they knew of me and the prophecy (potentially, I had to remind myself), but they had at least not told Her, for if they had She would have reached out to me. Why? Why tell only me? What was there to gain from only telling me? An alliance? A favor? A prisoner?

Everyone felt and dreaded The Princess’s gaze when they had cause to, but this pony (I hoped) had no fear at all. They felt certain She could not see, could not act on what they or I were doing. Worse, they wanted to convince me of that.

Was that someone I wanted alive when they tried to intrude again? Was that someone I wanted to walk away with only a warning? 

And yet I had no scent, no intensity, no sensation to match with their power, their blood. If I invoked what I meant to, it could lash out unexpectedly. All it would take was someone or something with a natural gift and my wishes could be misconstrued. I had no idea how many in Ponyville did possess a gift for sorcery, or were trained in scholarly arts. There was no school for it here, surely, but all cities, all towns, all villages, all hamlets and homesteads and perhaps even nomads had some inkling of gifted among them; it was only a matter of how many of them knew.

Would The Princess be angry with me should some townsfolk of Ponyville come to harm in the hopes I could protect myself from a potential enemy? How would I explain it to Her? Would She forgive my trespass of researching what she ordered I disregard? If She did not forgive me… what was the punishment? Prison? Exile? Sanitarium? 

A tombstone?

I cycled through questions and potential answers as I stared at and through the floor, the signs becoming blurred and crossed and wrong in my vision. I felt the doubt and worry and dinner churning in my stomach, threatening to bubble up my throat and spill onto the floor.

And realization came quickly: no matter what the answers to my worries and fears were, I lacked resolve, true resolve, that night. I wiped the floor clean, doused the candles, moved the table back to its proper place. Lighting a lamp, its glow seemed to only illuminate the inches around me, like a feeble wave pushing back against a deluge of darkness.

The air was pungent, stale and rotten and old. I had not finished the ritual, not even uttered the incantation, but even lines and potential entice a great many things, even if they cannot quite cross the threshold.

“I am in control,” I said, steady and sure. “I am in control.” I repeated it as many times as I could, letting my blood warm and boil and surge with my will. Inch by inch the darkness receded, until all seemed as it should be.

My body was shivering, insides frigid despite the warmth just beneath my coat. I carried the lamp with me upstairs, step by step. “I am in control,” I continued to mutter, slowly, to keep my voice steady.

I left the lamp at the top of the stairs, its glow bathing the bedroom in soft light. “I am in control,” I said, quieter but still sure enough to imply my will and strength. I did not rush to bed, instead taking heavy, slow steps. It felt like minutes under what I was certain were the eyes of something I could not see or hear, but certainly felt. I closed my eyes at the side of the bed and crawled under the covers.

I tried to sleep, to keep my eyes closed, but the feeling of being watched dwelled over me. It took many minutes before I built up the courage and reached out through the library. I was hit by a wave of nausea, a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach as if something acidic and hateful and rotting would not stay down, yet would not leave. I opened my eyes.

Beneath my breath, again and again, I muttered until sleep took me, “I am in control.”

Thankfully, it believed me.