For what seemed like eternity, I dreamed.
I dreamed of nothingness - of silence - of floating on a sea of black.
I was alone, surrounded by whispers.
I was at peace, surrounded by doubts.
Then, I was no longer alone. A piece of the sky floated bright against the darkness, a velvet wave filled with pinpricks of light. I heard a voice next to my ear. A gentle voice - a kindly voice. It said,
“Get up, Phobos. You don’t have much time.”
Gradually, Phobos wavered back into consciousness. The sounds of popping wood and hooves crunching on gravel mixed with an unusual sensation of heat on his side - a warm, comforting tingle. It felt like a...
He carefully opened one eye, then slammed it shut against the sudden orange glow. A fire.
...A fire?
Slowly, he lifted his head, and looked around. The lake was a hoofful of paces away. A small pool of orange light surrounded a small, crackling campfire, battling the ubiquitous, alien blue. His fur was still steaming - he couldn’t have been there for long.
He closed his eyes again, this time in concentration, and tried to remember. There had been a beast - a chimera. And his necklace had... he hesitated to say ‘saved him’. He touched a hoof to his neck, and winced as the cold metal of the choker rubbed against the ring of charred, tender flesh beneath. Before the attack, he had been...
Suddenly, it all came flooding back. The needleweeds. Ignus. The dawn. His eyes flung open, and darted to the eastern sky. Foreboding blushes of purple and red were just beginning to peek themselves over the horizon, though whether the light was actually there, or his mind was making him see things, Phobos wasn’t certain. Either way, he had to hurry.
He dug his hooves into the gravel, and tried to stand - but his legs had apparently been less ready than his mind, and they quickly collapsed under him. He toppled forward, cringing as the ground connected with his neck, and dug the gold band there deeper into the burn.
He took a deep breath, and prepared to try again - but then, he felt a hoof place itself on his back. Slowly, he turned his head, and looked into the large, worried, curious lavender eyes of its owner.
She was as beautiful then as she is now, but not in the same way.
Back then, she was not “Princess”, or “Your Majesty”. She was not the Shepherdess of Day and Night, the Guardian of the Weak, the Broken Sun. She was the Unconquered – the Righteous. Her strength was unbridled – her rage, raw and untempered. She was bright, and wild, like a newborn star.
How I wish she could have remained that way.
The pony that stared back at him was one that he had never seen before - but almost instantly, he knew who she was. Her white fur shone like pearls in the moonlight. Her mane, the soft, sweet pink of cherry blossoms, seemed to drift on an unfelt wind. Her eyes were youthful, and bright, but were still weary with age and experience. And on her flank, like a prophecy come true, was a symbol that he had seen many times before, hiding on the edge of the night sky - two concentric circles, with eight thick, curling rays - a fiery, orange-and-yellow sun.
“Celestia,” he heard himself whisper.
She cocked her head at him curiously.
“You know my name?” she asked, and her voice swept over him like a warm summer breeze.
“I’ve... I’ve been told about you, and your sister.” He pointed nervously over the lake, to where he knew that, even now, the proof of her existence lay hidden behind the trees.
“By whom?”
“By my mother.” After a moment’s pause and a raised eyebrow, he added, “Serena.”
“Another Son of Peace?” Celestia smiled, apparently amused. “How many does that make now?”
“Three,” Phobos said - though for some reason, the number ‘four’ nagged at the back of his mind.
She looked surprised by his answer, but then seemed to remember something, and nodded.
“Of course,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Phobos.”
“Phobos?” Again, her eyebrow climbed. “An... interesting title.”
Phobos shrugged. “It’s the one I was given.”
“...Indeed.” Her eyes flickered briefly down to the circlet around his neck, then returned. “How old are you?”
“Twelve, last month.”
“And... how many are left?”
“In the City?”
She nodded.
He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. He had never had to count their numbers before.
“...Fourteen,” he answered eventually.
Her eyes went wide with panic.
“Fourteen?!” she exclaimed. “Who?!”
“Well... there’s me, and Bellic, and Serena, and Ignus and Aeros, and Hippocrates, Sanarus... uh, and Terra, Aqua, and Flora...” At these names, her features softened somewhat, but her brow was still creased with worry. “...Oranos, Lexus... Dissimula... and Procere.”
Her eyes fell to the ground, and a very familiar look came over her face. The kind of look that every pony he knew seemed to have when they thought about days long gone - a chilling mixture of nostalgia and melancholy.
“...There were sixty-seven, when I left.” She sat down slowly, her haunches landing on the sand with a soft wumph.
Now, it was Phobos’ turn to be shocked.
“Sixty-seven?!”
She simply nodded.
If Phobos hadn’t already been on his belly, he would have sunk to the ground as well. Sixty-seven... that was nearly five times fourteen. Just how long had she been gone?
“What... happened to Gaia?” she asked eventually.
“Gaia? Oh - right. Your mother.” He thought for a moment. “I... don’t know. I think she died before I was born.”
“...and Fauna?”
Phobos was taken aback by this query - but he supposed that, perhaps, Fauna had been like a brother to more than one of Oranos’ daughters.
“He... left.” Her ears perked up, but he shook his head preemptively. “I’ve only heard about it second-hand - Flora would be the best one to tell you, when you come back.”
“...I see,” she said - but the sadness shimmering in her eyes said something else entirely.
“You... are coming back, right?” The question seemed obvious - of course she was, why else would she be this close? - but for some reason, he felt it needed to be asked.
“...Eventually.” She turned, and gazed out over the lake. “I’ll... need some time to prepare myself. It seems I’ve been gone for longer than I thought.”
A particularly violent pop of sparks from the campfire seemed to snap Celestia out of her stupor. She shook the fog from her head, and looked to him once more.
“What were you doing out here, anyway?”
Sighing in exasperation, his mind once again pushed the memories forward, chiding him for letting his urgency dissipate so quickly.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, his eyes shooting up to the moon. He grunted as he struggled to his hooves, and tried to move forward. After a few stumbling, faltering steps, he stopped, and settled for just staying standing. “There’s, uh... there’s a cluster of needleweeds, over by that break in the bushes.” He gestured with his head. “I came out here to get them.”
Celestia appeared to take pity on his wobbling legs. She stood up, and walked along the beach towards the plants in question.
“Why would you come all the way out here, alone, at night, for needleweeds?” she asked. “Doesn’t Flora grow them?”
“Well... yes,” Phobos answered, blushing slightly. Thankfully, the shadows covered up his embarrassment. “But I help Flora with her work, sometimes, and... I over-watered them. They couldn’t be harvested in time.”
Celestia chuckled slightly as she began to pluck the reeds with a bright, yellow glow. “I hardly think it’s worth this much trouble just to fix a mistake like that.”
“It wouldn’t have been. But earlier today -” He glanced up at the moon once more. “Well, yesterday, now - Bellic and Aeros came rushing back to the city carrying Ignus. Hippocrates said he needed needleweeds to treat the wound properly, and that without them, Ignus would die.” He hung his head. “And...”
“And it was your fault,” Celestia said quietly. She turned to look at him, a sad smile playing on her muzzle. “I know that feeling.”
With a final flourish of magic, she plucked a large leaf from a nearby fern, wrapped it around the bunch of reeds, and tied the arrangement off with a thin, leafy willow branch. She walked back along the beach, floating the bundle before her.
“Here,” she said, setting it down in front of him. “If that’s not enough, he’s beyond saving anyway.”
“...Thank you. But...” He gave a small laugh. “I don’t think I can even walk, let alone fly.”
She simply nodded, lowered her head, and placed the tip of her horn against his chest.
Phobos shivered as a wave of energy washed through him. His ears buzzed like a hive of bees - every hair of his fur stood on end, and his knees felt all at once weak, and stronger than they had ever been.
If the draining of the necklace had been pain, this was the exact opposite. The lifeforce of another being flowing through me - refilling me - revitalizing me. And not just any other - Celestia, the Light of Day, the Rising Sun. Her light shone through me like a raging flood through a stagnant pool, clearing away all the detritus of disuse - the fear, the doubt, the twists and knots.
It was the most intimate thing I had ever experienced. Had I not already been enamored with her, it would have easily made it so - as it was, it only dug me deeper.
After a few moments, she pulled back, the yellow glow of her horn fading.
Carefully, Phobos unfurled his wings, testing their strength. The muscles reported back smartly: Feathers straight, bones solid - all systems ready for launch.
“...Thank you,” he said again, lost for any other words. He straightened out his crooked stance, and bowed respectfully. “I... look forward to your return.”
Celestia smiled, and gave a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t await it too eagerly. I still have to tell Luna. She’s... somewhere out here.” Her gaze turned upwards, as though searching among the stars for their absent master.
Phobos bowed again, picked up the bundle of reeds in his mouth, and turned towards the City. As he crouched down and spread his wings, her voice came once more.
“Phobos?”
He looked back. Her eyes were still scanning the sky, but more out of awkwardness than indifference.
“Don’t... tell the others that we’re back, yet. Please. We’ll come when we’re ready, and... I don’t want them to worry.”
How could I refuse?
Phobos nodded, then launched himself out of the light of the lake and the fire and the pony that stood beside them, and up into the night.
He knew that his arrival through the shield had probably been felt, just as his departure had been. Any pony within the shield - well, any pony with magic - could feel the hums and ripples of things coming and going if they were looking for them, and if he knew one thing about anypony in the City, it was that Bellic was always watching.
So he was not surprised to find the silhouette of his father waiting for him outside the Castle gate. He folded his wings and stepped into the pool of light which flowed meekly through the archway. Bellic gave the bundle in his mouth a cursory glance, then silently stepped aside. The way his fiery blue eyes glinted said everything his mouth did not. There would be words, later, and many of them - but for now, something else was more important.
As Phobos approached the Altar, Hippocrates and Sanarus looked up from their patient like matching stone gargoyles. The reeds were snatched from his mouth by an azure glow before he had even set one hoof over the edge of the runescape.
“You should have taken someone with you,” was all Hippocrates had to say as he unwrapped the bundle, flinging the leaf and twig away. He tore the first reed into thin strips, and laid the fibers inside the gash. Then, he began to stitch the wound shut, punching the tips of the reeds through Ignus’ flesh like a needle and thread.
“Hey,” a quiet voice said next to him.
Phobos felt a hoof on his shoulder, and looked up into the warm blue eyes of Sanarus, who smiled at him comfortingly. Whatever those two say to you, that smile silently said, you did well. Remember that. The healer pulled him into an embrace. Phobos gladly accepted, resting his head on Sanarus’ neck. When he pulled away, Sanarus’ muzzle brushed against the necklace, and Phobos flinched involuntarily.
The healer’s brow immediately creased with worry. “Are you hurt?” he asked - but before Phobos could so much as shake his head, Sanarus’ horn was alight.
He shivered at the familiar, creeping, tingling sensation - magic, poking and prodding his body, searching out cut and bruise. The pins and needles crawled across his skin, and slowly coalesced around his neck - around where the choker sat - around the ring of burn beneath.
“Oh my,” Sanarus said, letting his magic fade. He bent down and gently lifted the gold band with one hoof, peering at the skin beneath. “How did this happen?”
Phobos sighed heavily. “I was attacked by a chimera. It turns out my necklace is more than just a trinket.”
The healer’s eyes went wide. “You beat a chimera?”
No. I almost died.
“Yes. Well, the necklace helped a lot.”
“Wow.” Sanarus couldn’t help but laugh. “I have to admit, I never thought you’d be able to do something like that on your own.”
I can’t. Celestia is on her way back, by the way.
Phobos chuckled back. “Neither did I.”
“Well, since you can,” said a deep, resounding voice behind them. Phobos turned to face his father, who was grinning in an interesting mixture of fury and victory. “I think that, perhaps, you are...” Bellic glanced briefly at Hippocrates, but Phobos didn’t see if the doctor looked back. “...Recovered.”
At that word, something in the pit of his stomach twisted itself into a cold, hard knot. The words that came next were ones he had been dreading since he had been old enough to understand their meaning.
“You begin training tomorrow.”
I am in a land that I have never seen before, walking a well-worn path through a twilit forest. Evil red eyes glint in the shadows between the branches, but a beam of light shines down upon me from above, wrapping me in its warmth. I am safe.
Another pony appears ahead on the path. She is dark, like the night, and her mane is filled with stars. As I approach her, the light from the sky fades, and in the distance, the full moon begins to rise. The light it casts is cold, and weak.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She only giggles in response.
“Please, tell me who you are.”
“You know who I am,” she says.
It’s true - she is familiar, somehow. But her name escapes me. I shake my head. “I’ve forgotten.”
She closes her eye, and when it opens again, the moon is there in its place. She stands behind the horizon, larger than the sky, looking down upon me.
She smiles. “You will remember soon enough.” Then, she turns and walks away, and the moon is gone. I am surrounded by blackness. The red eyes growl threateningly, and approach, circling, growing, multiplying
Suddenly, I remember her name. The world begins to unravel, because it is no longer real.
“Wait!” I yell into the fracturing blackness. “I remember now!”
But it is too late. She is gone, and I am awake - and the day that lies ahead comes rushing back.
“One.”
Down.
“Two.”
Down.
“Three.”
Down.
“Four.”
Down.
“Left.”
Left.
“Right.”
Right.
“Left.”
Left.
“Right.”
Right.
“Switch.”
Phobos dug the tips of his wings into the ground, and tucked his hooves up against his chest, taking the brief respite to try and catch his breath. The dirt beneath him was soft with his sweat, and more dripped from him every moment. He had never known push-ups could be so difficult. Bellic’s exercises looked like a breeze when Ignus and Aeros were doing them, but he had never quite processed that they had been doing them for years.
Bellic circled around him, his chanting somehow managing to be droning and furious all at once. He watched Phobos’ every move, never blinking, never straying, scrutinizing every twitching muscle and misplaced hair.
“One,” he barked.
Down.
“Two.”
Down.
“Three.”
Down.
“Four.”
Down.
“Left.”
Left.
“Left.”
Ri-
“Wrong!”
Phobos gasped in pain as Bellic’s rear hoof connected sharply with his thigh. He toppled sideways, losing the precarious balance he had held on his two rear hooves and right wing.
“Ow,” he grunted, rubbing his flank. “What was that for?”
“There is no room for mistakes and uncertainty,” Bellic growled, continuing his ceaseless march. “Not here, and certainly not on the battlefield. Get up.”
A spark of rebellion flashed in the back of Phobos’ mind, and the rest, long dry, went up like tinder in a wildfire. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted himself to a sitting position, his haunches remaining obstinately on the ground.
Bellic stopped, and shot him a glare fiery enough to melt iron. “I said, get up.”
“Why should I?” Phobos snapped. A part of him deep inside cackled madly, but he thrust it aside - there would be time to relish this later. “What use can I possibly be to you? I don’t have magic - all I have is this necklace. Maybe I can hold my own against a wild beast, but against the Coven? Against the Arcmage Vern, and Gerard the Earthbound? What will I do, throw myself in front of you?”
Bellic’s gaze softened, and for a few moments, the black stallion was silent. Had he finally done it? Had he managed to make his father see reason? That would be something to tell Aeros about. He doubted his brother would even believe him.
“You’re right, of course,” Bellic said thoughtfully. “All you have is that necklace.”
Phobos’ heart clenched, and he looked away nervously. Bellic being calm was about as reassuring as standing in the eye of a hurricane - unnerving quiet, surrounded on all sides by the raging, unavoidable storm. But when Bellic spoke next, it was not a shouted reprimand, nor a snarled rebuke, nor even a spiteful, venom-filled growl. It was simply, “Stay very still.”
Phobos looked up just in time to see his father’s horn light up with a ruby glow. Before he had had time to panic, or even be confused, the beam of magic was rocketing towards him, and he cringed backwards.
Bzshlang!
Gently, he cracked open one eye. He was... still alive, at least. What had the spell done? A stiff breeze gave him the answer, gently stinging his now-exposed burn. He put a hoof to his neck and cast his eyes about, eventually settling on the bent, cracked, smoking remains of his choker, lying on the ground next to him in a shimmering dusting of garnet shards.
He turned back to his father in confusion, but Bellic gave no answer. Instead, he simply tossed over a small rock, and pointed at it.
“Lift it.”
Phobos glanced down at the pebble, then back at his father.
“What?”
“Lift it,” Bellic repeated.
“...With what?” He couldn’t seriously be suggesting -
“With magic.”
He was. “What? But I -”
“LIFT IT!”
Well, it was obvious now - Bellic had finally gone mad. He didn’t have magic - hadn’t had it his whole life. Why would that change just because he had...
He had taken off his necklace.
Phobos looked at the mangled metal once more, and the gold twinkled at him mischievously. Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking? it sparkled.
I just might be, he replied.
Turning back to the rock, he took a deep breath, and focused. He emptied his mind of everything but the pebble, let it fill his vision, blocked out everything but that single piece of gray, speckled stone.
Up, he thought.
The rock didn’t move.
Of course it won’t respond to words, he chided. Silly.
He began to think the meaning of up, the feeling of up, the motion of up. He thought of flight, of wind, and his mind drifted to Aeros and his advice. ‘That’s all flying is, really - you just fall and forget to hit the ground.’ Of course - he couldn’t lift the rock because rocks didn’t float. He had to make it forget that, first.
He tried again. Closing his eyes, he pictured the rock in his mind - its shape, its weight, its texture. He imagined the rock becoming weightless - losing hold of its heaviness, slipping away from its earthiness - rising gently into the air...
The rock wobbled slightly, but he never got the chance to see it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dusty, neglected cog had, at long last, been clicked into place. The gates against which the flood had forever been beating cracked, creaked, and burst open, and the electric waters swept him away.
“This is an odd time to be sleeping.”
“Is it?”
I turn to look at the view. The plains beyond the gazebo wave back gaily, and the sun shines brightly in the emerald sky.
I frown, confused. “It seems like a fine time to me.” Her words swim through the air, and pass themselves before my eyes once more, plucking at my attention. “Wait... I’m asleep?”
She gestures towards the field outside. “Have you ever seen purple grass before?”
“...No,” I admit. “But it does make excellent tea.” I nod towards the set of porcelain on the table between us, the violet liquid within steaming gently.
“Oh, most definitely,” she agrees, floating her cup to her lips. She takes a dainty sip, and hums in deep satisfaction. “I’m not usually one for tea, but I make an exception for brews such as this one.”
“Purple?” I ask, grinning.
She laughs. “Imaginary.”
“So I am dreaming?”
“That is what I said.”
I consider this. “But, if I’m dreaming, and I know that I’m dreaming... why aren’t I waking up?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates. “I’m... not sure. Normally, once a pony finds out that something isn’t real, it deteriorates rather quickly.”
“I think I remember that happening last night. Once I remembered who you were, I realized that I was dreaming, and the dream fell apart.”
“That was actually my fault, for the most part.” She blushes slightly. “Your dream had altered itself to compensate for my presence, so when I left, it became unstable.”
“Still,” I insist. “Something must have changed between then and now.”
“Such as?”
My train of thought slows to a crawl. “...I don’t know.”
“Hm.” Suddenly, her eyes move away from me, and she looks curiously over my shoulder.
I turn in my chair to see what has caught her attention. Behind me is a large iron door, set solidly into empty air. As soon as I lay eyes on it, it swings noiselessly open, revealing the endless black expanse within.
“How long has that been there?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “But it would seem that it wants you to enter.”
“...Should I?”
She giggles. “I’ve found that, generally, when a door in a dream invites you inside, it’s best not to question it.”
“I see. Well...” I step down from my chair, and bow to her. “It’s been lovely talking to you. I hope to see you again soon.”
“In your dreams, or in reality?” I hear the slightest hint of distant sadness in her voice, but I think I must be imagining it.
I smile. “Either one is fine with me.”
I turn, and walk through the door, and the world swings shut behind me.
“Phobos?” a distant voice called.
His bleary eyes fluttered open, trying to find the source of the sound.
“Phobos, look at me.”
He looked, and found only two round, pinkish blurs.
“Look at me, Phobos. Focus.”
He was tempted to just go back to sleep - he had been having such a nice dream, after all - but the voice was persistent, coaxing his mind out from under its blankets, and brushing the sand out of his eyes. The blurs slowly resolved into rose-colored irises, staring at him intensely.
“What can you remember?” they asked.
His reply came groggily. “Uh... I was training with Bellic, and... he broke off my necklace, and then -”
“No,” she interjected. “What can you remember?”
Confused, he looked off into the distance, and thought back.
“You’re right, of course. All you have is that necklace.”
And back.
“And it was your fault. I know that feeling.”
And back.
“Stupid!”
And back.
“You begin training tomorrow.”
And back.
“He left.”
And back...
“And she was... watching the whole time?”
“Where is he staying?”
“You always do that!”
“Quick! Come here!”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s a door to Tartarus?”
“I didn’t know you liked history.”
“He told me exactly what I’m going to tell you.”
“Yes, I know.”
“‘Fully recovered’ does not mean ‘ready to start training’!”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s very... pale,” Bellic had said, looking down at the weak, disfigured form of his newborn son, twelve years ago.
As the echoes in his head faded, he slowly turned back to the rosy, hooded gaze that watched him. His own eyes were now wide, both with bewildered panic and morbid curiosity.
“...Everything,” he said - and it was true. Every memory, every moment he had ever experienced, was laid out before him like fallen leaves, swirling about in some amaranthine breeze.
Despite the strangeness of his answer, the mare only sighed in relief, and rose to her hooves.
“Good,” she said. “I was afraid Bellic might have broken you.”
“...Broken me?”
She walked through the nearby door, and disappeared from sight.
“Yes,” she yelled back, “by removing the necklace too early - although his method was equally worrying.”
Phobos took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was in a bedroom - or, at the very least, a room which contained a large pile of straw in which he was laying. A line of small windows let in the light of early afternoon. Through the single doorway, he could see a second, larger room with a small balcony. The soft, tinkling sounds of clattering dishes echoed about the space.
The room was far more adorned than most of those in the Castle. Tier after tier of thick wooden shelves lined the cobbled walls, filled with a teetering and jumbled assortment of books, scrolls, candles, delicate brass instruments, odd clay sculptures, glass spheres, rough-cut geodes, and all manner of other esoteric baubles and trinkets.
He was about to ask the mare where he was when she came back through the door. A tray floated on a cloud of pink sparkles before her, carrying a pot and pair of cups that looked like they had seen better days and long since forgotten about them. She set the tray on the ground between them, and sat back down.
“Tea?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No thank you - I just had some.”
She looked at him inquisitively.
He furrowed his brow. “No, wait, I... I just dreamed that I had some.”
“You see?” She began filling their cups. “This is exactly the sort of thing that the necklace was supposed to prevent. If you’re not properly trained when the third eye opens, it becomes difficult to distinguish fact from reality, myth from legend, dream from sleep...”
“Third eye?”
“I was going to wait a few more years to start telling you all this, but I don’t suppose I have much of a choice now.” She took a small sip from her cup, and looked him in the eye. “That necklace has been passed down for thousands of years. It was designed to keep you safe, both from outside forces and from yourself. To that end, it was meant to seal off all of your conscious magic until such a time as you were ready to handle your powers.”
“My... powers?” He had magic? Magic that was so strong that it had needed to be locked away until he was ready for it?
“Phobos,” she said, "you are the 12th seer.”
A leaf fluttered out of the chaos, and floated before him.
“...Is there a 12th seer?” he had asked his mother, many years ago.
Serena had paused, taken slightly aback, then looked down at him warmly, studying his face, his eager, thirsty eyes. For a moment, her gaze had flickered to the moonlit garnet on his neck, but Phobos only saw it because now, he was looking for it.
“Not yet,” she had said before kissing his forehead. “But I know he’ll come eventually.”
“...Oh,” he said.
The mare raised an eyebrow. “I must admit, I expected a bit more than ‘oh’.”
“Sorry, I just...” He tried to piece together an explanation, but found that there was no real way to explain it. It was like he had finally found the proper place for a tiny piece in an enormous puzzle - but instead of giving him a victorious thrill, it only left him feeling like the piece should have been there all along. “I guess it just... seems sort of obvious, looking back on it.”
She smiled, amused. “Retrospective is a good start.”
“But, if I’m the 12th seer,” he continued, “then... you must be Dissimula.”
“Correct.”
“And... that means we’re in the Turris.”
“Three for two. Excellent.”
Phobos couldn’t tell whether Dissimula was mocking him, or was genuinely impressed by his basic inference skills. Her smile was permanent, but so slight as to be almost invisible, hovering halfway out of existence, as though it was here in the now, but also somewhere else entirely.
“So... what happens now?” he asked.
“Now? I’ll have to start teaching you.” Her smile grew a bit larger than usual. “Of course, Bellic isn’t likely to let you go so easily, now that you’re, ah... fully fledged - but I won’t make you negotiate with him on that account. I know even better than you how he can be.”
“Wait... negotiate? Negotiate what?”
“For your time, of course.” She took another sip of her tea. “He’ll want to mold you into what he wants you to be, and I want to mold you into what you need to be -”
Phobos swallowed nervously. He was busy enough as it was with learning, and watering, and spending time with his brothers, without two more ponies fighting to control him.
“- But in the end,” she continued, “you will have to forsake us both, and shape yourself into what you are.”
He looked at her curiously. “And what am I?”
“That’s what I’m here to teach you.”