Stygian’s home was an anachronistic paradox. Tucked on the border of Ponyville and the Everfree Forest, it had been designed to resemble a common thatched house of Old Equestria. However, the materials used to construct it were notably fresh. The mortar between the masonry was bright white, unblemished by lime and oyster shells as a truly ancient structure would have been. It brought to mind a foal wearing the clothes of his grandfather.
Sunburst gave a quick rap on the door, before stepping back to adjust himself. He took care to brush his mane and oil the tassel of his beard that morning; his cloak was laundered the night before. Stygian ought to be shown the best version of him, not the one streaked with sweat and dust below Hollow Shades as he watched history be made, or the one who rolled out of bed to go antiquing on his day off, mane in its typical snarl.
Stygian didn’t come to the door right away. A muffled call rang out from within, “A moment, please!” This was followed by the clatter of dishware and a brusque trot of hooves.
Then, the door parted, and Stygian was staring up at Sunburst. A smudge of flour crossed the bridge of his long, pointed snout.
“Good evening,” he said, offering a shallow bow — an old manner of greeting. “You’ll have to forgive me. Dinner is still being prepared.”
“I don’t mind!” Sunburst followed Stygian inside. “Do you need a hoof?”
“No, do not trouble yourself. I just haven’t prepared a meal for anypony but myself in…” Stygian’s hooves dragged and he shook his withers. “I misjudged the time it would take.”
Particles spun in a warm shaft of sunlight from the west window. Flour, most likely, as Stygian rose on his hind legs to thump a broad ball of dough onto the white-dusted countertop. Something rich and herbed suffused the air and Sunburst followed his nose to the sight of a simmering cauldron over a cherry-red hearth. The stew within was a lovely shade of deep orange.
“The bread will bake in under an hour and the stew is thickening,” Stygian said, his voice catching with a grunt as he began to knead. “Please, have a drink while you wait.”
A frosted bottle of pale cordial was prepared at the table. Sunburst poured himself a cup and blinked rapidly as he sipped, surprised by the complex flavor. “This is delicious! What’s in it?”
“Pressed elderflower, lemon, rosemary, and honey. We drank it hot in the winter months to fend off congestion.” Stygian’s gaze flicked over his shoulder with a faint smile. “And cold in the summer as a treat.”
Sunburst was struck. Such a mundane bit of knowledge, yet it unveiled a rich narrative. Nothing like this had appeared in Stygian’s book.
His eyes traced a cursory path around the kitchen. It was sparse, bereft of decor or creature comforts. Sunburst took note of a wooden spoon hanging from the rack supporting the pot of stew. It was familiar to the one he caught sight of in Stygian’s saddlebag, newly bought at whatever other antique store he had sprinted from.
The obsidian dagger itself was on display above the fireplace. Its jagged blade pointed downward, held aloft above Stygian’s bent neck.
“I fear, however, that this bread will be a poor replication of what I once enjoyed.” Stygian began to speak again. “The wheat of this new world is pale and lacks fiber. And I cannot afford quality stone-milled grain. Funny how what was once a common staple is now elevated to such a status.”
“Indeed!” Sunburst raised his hoof. “The practice of bleaching flour came into effect about a hundred years ago as standards of culinary safety increased. Old Equestrian wheat and barley were far more fibrous, yet took greater effort to harvest and mill, and still do. Er — but you already know that of course.”
Stygian chuckled, his eyes remaining on his kneading. That may have been the first time Sunburst heard him laugh. It was raspy, like an untuned instrument.
“Come to think of it, my hometown has a bakery that specializes in ancient grain products.” Sunburst stroked his beard in thought. “I… sadly can’t attest to the quality, but maybe you’d like them.”
“I will consider it,” Stygian replied without turning.
There was a harsh focus in the way Stygian worked. His brow was creased as his hooves pressed and rolled the dough, the sinuous muscle of his forelegs contracting under his flat gray coat. At his temples, his mane was darkened with sweat. A bead of moisture rolled from his forehead but dissipated once it reached his cheek, Stygian’s horn letting off a brief flash. Sunburst realized in faint amazement that he magicked the sweat away before it could risk dropping into the dough.
It was warm inside, a combined heat from the low beams of the late summer sun and the toasty hearth. Sunburst was tempted to shake off his heavy, star-studded robe. Despite the labor of baking, Stygian still wore his dusty brown cloak. It looked to be made of burlap, or similarly scratchy fabric that caught on the coat. Ponies of his era rarely denuded themselves fully unless they were in close company. But perhaps his reason went deeper. This article of clothing escaped Limbo along with him, untouched by time.
“I appreciated the letter.” Stygian’s voice guided Sunburst’s attention. “Your Old Ponish is nearly flawless.”
“Oh. Why, thank you.” Sunburst’s posture rose. “If only I was half as good at spellcasting as I am at translating old documents. My Old Ponish fluency is one of my proudest skills. It took what felt like eons of research to perfect. I appreciated the way you wrote your address, too. I don’t remember the last time I could exchange writing with somepony who knows the language. Much less somepony authentically raised on it!”
Stygian offered a faint smile and dropped his forehooves to the floor. They wobbled as he trotted across the kitchen, no doubt sore from the kneading. His intently crafted loaf, shaped and scored, entered the clay oven set in the wall.
“In your letter, you mentioned my books,” Stygian remarked as he struck a match.
Sunburst swallowed a gulp of cordial. “I did. Starlight — you remember my friend Starlight, right?”
“I remember Starlight. She stepped into the Shadow and spoke to me. She’s very brave.”
“She is.” Sunburst set aside his glass. “Anyway, she loaned me your book. Me and My Shadow. I found it to be, well…” He sucked his teeth. “The storytelling, the prose, it… it wasn’t what I expected, if I’m being honest. It didn’t sound like you.”
A slow scent of rising dough accompanied the herbal redolence of the stew. Stygian didn’t react to Sunburst’s potentially inflammatory statement, moving to brush off the counter with a rag.
“That’s because it didn’t come from me,” he said.
“Huh?”
Sunburst had difficulty keeping still, and keeping quiet, as Stygian finished his cleaning and came to join him at the table. “I sold the story to another author. A ghostwriter, she was called, who allowed the work to still bear my name. It’s provided me with a humble, yet habitable, income.”
Slowly, Sunburst’s jaw fell open. “Stygian! You are a legendary figure of Equestrian history!” He fixed his glasses, shaken loose from his exclamation. “There are ponies who would pay you so much more than a ‘humble, habitable income’ to know the true story of the stallion who was once the Pony of Shadows.”
Stygian’s chin was low as he poured himself a drink, his eyes partly curtained by his fringe. “The true story is what they got.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”
Stygian flinched, but Sunburst continued, “And if that’s what you intended, why not write the book yourself?”
“In essence, I did." Stygian's pitch rose, as though seeking supplication. "I wrote a detailed outline of my history and sent it to the author. She was given the rights to embellish the story as she saw fit and match the standards of today’s literature.” A strain crept into his voice that the honey in the cordial couldn’t remedy. “Which is something I am not capable of. While I may be able to engage in spoken conversation with ease, my written New Ponish leaves much to be desired. The outline itself I wrote in Old Ponish. It’s what I know. The author informed me she hired a translator.”
He took a slow sip and then a slow breath. “Besides, I was a strategist. My writing is practical. If it is of any comfort to you, my first two publications were largely my own words. The ghostwriter just aided in filling the gaps.”
Sunburst’s thoughts spun. While he was lost in their tempest, Stygian took the opportunity to slip from the table and give the stew pot a stir. The conversation hung unfinished as the bread baked to a golden brown and the stew was served in a pair of old ceramic bowls.
Like the cordial, the stew was ambrosial. It was a sweet potato base with complex, yet precise seasoning, not too light or heavy. Sunburst's first gulps were so greedy he narrowly avoided dribbling it onto his coiffed beard. With a plaintive twinge to his voice, he said, “Your cooking is incredible.”
“Thank you." Stygian delicately sipped from a spoon. “I've worked hard to find ways of joining simple elements to form a greater whole.”
“You… you make delicious stew,” Sunburst murmured. His hooves thumped on the table. “This drink is so flavorful and has its own history. You bake your own bread at home! You collect antiques. There is so much more to you than that overly dramatic book about just another Equestrian villain!”
Stygian’s head jerked to attention. Beneath his low brows, his vivid azure eyes were piercing.
“Indeed, you are right. I am not just another Equestrian villain. But that is the path I chose a millennium ago. That is how I am known. Do you believe I’d offer any value to the ponies of this modern land to characterize myself as a paltry domestic who prepares meals and tracks down lost remnants from a home that no longer exists?” He paused. “Or that they would regard a stallion of that description favorably?”
“Is allowing yourself to be stereotyped any better?” Sunburst’s hoof curled against his chest. “I’m just trying to understand. If not for wealth, then what? Being a famous author no matter the personal cost?”
“I don’t care for renown! My dreams of heroism have long passed,” Stygian insisted. “And no, I have no need for extravagant wealth. I merely want…” A shuddering sigh wracked him. “I merely want to exist. That bedamned book has allowed me to do so.”
His head fell. A bead of moisture rolled under his chin and, this time, was not intervened upon as it dropped into the bowl. Stygian pushed it away.
Sunburst reached across the table, but hesitated, halted by the knowledge that the cultural mores of physical contact were different now than the time of Old Equestria. And regardless, Stygian was too far from him to make easy contact with his shoulder.
Instead, he said, “You have friends in Ponyville, Stygian. Why have you been out here, all alone?”
Stygian was taken aback. “I… it’s what I’m familiar with.”
“Not always though, right? What about the Pillars?”
“My time with them feels like another life. In many ways, it was.” He turned to the window, the sharp outline of his profile illuminated by gold. The wash of evening drew out a freshness in his weary features, time releasing its uncertain hold on him for the briefest moment. “And I must admit, inviting you here… I was not certain you would agree.”
Sunburst’s ears drooped, his brow creased in sympathy. “I did, though, didn’t I?”
“You did.” Stygian pulled his attention back as though with a painful effort. “And I can’t express my gratitude enough. At the time, it felt like a great risk.”
“Well, it often takes a risk to be rewarded. Hlight foresetten plight.” Sunburst rested his chin on his hoof. “Something tells me you’re familiar with that phrase.”
“Yes. Reward prefers risk.” Behind his eyes, Stygian went elsewhere. At the far wall, hung the dagger, poised above Stygian’s head where he sat. The silence dragged a beat too long to be comfortable.
He sniffed, reawakening. “Though, the way you describe the meaning of that invocation is not all that it suggests. It is less about the reward one attains at the end of a tribulation. The risk itself is the reward. The idea is that against any peril, you exhibit your fearlessness, your unwillingness to be compromised by cowardice. And you are rewarded through demonstrating your strength. That’s how my father spoke of it.”
“I’ve… always said it loses something in the translation,” Sunburst murmured in agreement as his mind wandered.
Stygian’s father was the first mention of a family member he offered. Any allusions to his past in Me and My Shadow were vague. Sunburst learned little more than the general culture of the town Stygian grew up in, but there was no information on his family. The book began in the period of his young adulthood, traveling the land. That starting point suggested to Sunburst he left home far behind.
Daring in his desire for knowledge, Sunburst took a risk of his own and said, “That reminds me — you mentioned that dagger from the antique shop was important to you.” His eyes settled on its dark shape across the room.
“As are all of my possessions. At least, those that I have been able to retrieve. They bring me peace in this unfamiliar time, as though I’m not so out of place here as I believe.”
“But the dagger — you ran across Equestria trying to find it! Even I wouldn’t do that for just any old thing.” Sunburst’s heart began to thump with the same excitement he first felt upon beholding the unique relic. “Did you personally wield it in your travels with the Pillars?” He gasped. “Did you ever slay a monster with it?”
Stygian’s eyes went wide. His chair scraped across the floor as he abruptly pushed it out from under him. He levitated his near-full bowl of stew to the fireplace and upended it. “Your curiosity is admirable, Sunburst. Befitting a scholar.” From the hiss in his voice, Stygian was speaking through a clenched jaw. “You read my book. You know no such events took place.”
Sunburst did nothing to restrain the grunt of frustration that left him. “That’s the point I’ve been trying to get across! I could have read Star Swirl’s journal and your book back to back and I would have ended up with the same information between them. But you’re here; I’m speaking to you. I don’t have to wonder about the past because you’ve brought it to the present. And I have a convincing hunch you have a lot to offer.”
He abandoned the sumptuous meal to pace across the kitchen floor. Stygian startled and whirled to face him. Though impassioned, Sunburst wasn’t angry. He stopped at a conversational distance, wearing an expression of sincerity.
He brought himself into the slightest crouch, eye level with Stygian now. “I don’t want to know the tale of the Pony of Shadows. I want to know the tale of Stygian.”
Stygian had taken a step back, his short tail bobbing perilously over the fire. His face was haggard and defeated. “That… is not a happy tale.”
Sunburst’s voice was firm, but kind. “It doesn’t have to be. I’ve read plenty of unhappy tales and do you know what they tell me? Even in the most painful of circumstances, love and friendship survived.” The words from the torn scroll in his office were held in his mind’s eye, an invocation. “I look to them often for inspiration when I feel like I’m out of place. You could offer that to somepony, too. I know you already did for Starlight.”
Cultural divide be damned, Sunburst did what came natural to him. He drew close to Stygian and gave a soft, comforting pat to his shoulder. Stygian flinched, but accepted it. Sunburst felt the sharp scapula under his cloak and the light brush of Stygian’s horn against his sternum as his head hung below Sunburst’s chest. He smelled like the herbs from his cooking. He was warm and real.
As they parted, Sunburst asked, “Don’t you want to be known?”
A vindictive edge had manifested in the lineaments of Stygian’s expression. “That is a dangerous thing to be.”
Sunburst took a steadying breath, raising to an inspired posture. “What if I helped you write another book?” he blurted. “A total revision of Me and My Shadow. We can call it: Stygian’s True Story! — working title! Whatever you write down, I can translate with ease. Or, I could interview you! Equestria will finally know your autobiography, beyond the Pony of Shadows, beyond the legend of the Pillars. Something you can truly call your own! What do you think?”
A log in the hearth popped like a breaking bone. Stygian’s hind legs were bent into a shallow crouch, hocks quivering. Nothing in his face was keen to Sunburst’s spiel, his gaze lost to the middle distance.
Finally, he sputtered, “No.”
Stygian sidestepped out from under Sunburst’s looming presence. “You make a generous offer, but it is not one I can accept. I hope you can forgive that. I have nothing else to share with the world.” He turned his back, facing the rough stone wall. “You were wrong.”
A sudden knot caught in Sunburst’s throat. He closed his eyes, steadying.
“Okay,” he said.
Thereafter, Sunburst readied to depart, the heavy weight of unrewarded hope hanging in his chest.
He paused in the doorway. “Thank you for dinner. It really was amazing.” He paused again. “I’ll see you sometime again soon?”
“I hope so,” Stygian said in a clipped way, as though that was an outcome he had no agency over.
And that was how the night ended. Sunburst returned home. He thought too much. And in the guttering candlelight of his bedroom, he read through Me and My Shadow one last time, as though familiarity with its ostentatious words might reveal a hidden truth.
A certain passage vexed him.
The Shadow spoke to me with a voice like no other. I was drawn into its embrace like that of a lover.
Sunburst gnawed his hoofnail until a sliver broke free. A knot was lodged between his stomach and his heart.
He considered asking Stygian about this line. He should have. But he wasn’t that brave.
The knowledge of the ghostwriter further confounded his resolve. She could have added that phrasing for any reason. Romanticized language was her apparent forte.
The translator may have stretched their interpretation. Yet, what was imbued in Stygian’s original outline to evoke the idea of the Shadow as a paramour? Old Ponish only had one word for lover.
What had been lost in translation? What could be found?