//------------------------------// // Chapter 10: Dope on the Ropes // Story: Zenith // by The Descendant //------------------------------// Chapter 10: Dope on the Ropes “Tape” is a funny word. When most ponies think of “tape”, they imagine the adhesive variety. Others may think of a measuring tape, or a vinyl tape used in some recording processes. In the end, all of these meanings come back to the original; namely, long, thin strands of cloth. “A long time ago, Spike,” Twilight had once told him, “all documents were held together with tape. And those types of documents that the government used were marked with a very special colored tape!” Red tape. “Exactly!” she had answered. Spike looked up from the floor to discover that he’d run into a massive ball of the material, and as he lay there on the floor he realized he’d walked right past it as they had entered earlier that day. He’d walked right past it every day for a week, truth be told. He had been so enthusiastic about proceeding to find the answer to what could be vexing Twilight that he hadn’t seen the library staff slowly but surely freeing old documents of the tape, building up the giant ball so that they could put the documents into a more permanent form of protection. “Whoa,” he said, gazing up at it. Whether the staff was gathering it up as a record attempt, a new tourist attraction to draw ponies to the archive, or just as a lark, there it sat… a giant ball of bureaucratic binding, keeping him from completing his task. His way was, quite literally, blocked by red tape. Spike grimaced, rubbing his head as he stood. Gripping the scroll, he scooted around the ball of red tape, carefully avoiding the other patrons who stood there, gazing upon the officious orb with their jaws hanging open. Spike exited the Royal Archives and turned down one of the myriad alleys as he made his way towards the palace. Even though the core palace complex was only a few hundred yards from the Royal Archives, he avoided the high street. Spike slipped from alley to alley, deftly scrambling across discarded boxes, racks of milk bottles, and over sleeping cats without waking them. Leaping about like this was something he did not do much, but it was part of him, the same agility he had once used to "capture" an escaping hot air balloon. The spring air washed over him, and the brown haversack Artificer Call had given him flew out behind the dragon. His claws dug deep into the surfaces, marring them. His tongue came loose, and his inner eyelids blinked. It was a part of himself that he did not show others, at least not often. It was just another thing that only Twi really knew about him… that he only shared with her… It was an animal part of him, and when he realized it was calling strength from a part of him he did not like he startled himself, his eyes going wide. His grip slipped, and he went tumbling out of the alley and out across the plaza nearest the palace gate. “Ow,” he breathed, rubbing his tuckus, not really caring about who may be watching. He sat among the green expanse, watching proper ponies prance up to the main gate. Their papers in hoof, he watched with a small self-satisfied smirk as individuals that were filled with unwarranted amounts of self-importance were kindly, yet forcibly, refused an audience. “Heh,” he breathed, and with that he made for the kitchen gate. This was an old trick, one known to Celestia’s dearest students… and their closest companions. “Hey Spike,” said the guardspony who stood watch there, one who spent most of his day watching sacks of flour and bushels of fruits being carried within. “Hey,” Spike said, fighting to remember the guard’s name. He was halfway up the stairs leading to Celestia’s personal chambers before his tired mind had cleared enough to even allow him to begin to guess. Spike knew the palace… he had grown up here. If need be he could scamper all over this place unseen, as he had done on any number of occasions when playing hide-and-seek with the Lord Protector of the Nursery, his nurses, Twilight, or even Celestia herself. Then again, he’d used that same ability to hide from all of the above when he’d been a naughty, naughty little dragon. “Heh,” he laughed, doubting that he’d ever need to do so again. Fate laughed back, readying itself. “Dehisce!” Spike cried, slapping his own forehead, finally remembering the guard’s name as he mounted the last stair. “A verb,” answered an engaged voice. Spike looked up to see the two earth pony guards, Morning Mist and Simple Script, looking back at him with something approaching eagerness on their faces. “Yes, it is a verb, an intransitive one at that,” Morning Mist continued, closing one eye and turning his other towards the ceiling. "The meaning is, well… oh, ‘to suddenly spring forth’ or ‘to break open’, to ‘burst forth’ as it were.” The two guards stared at him with anticipation. “Did I guess it correctly, young master dragon?” Morning Mist said, aquiver with anticipation. “Ummm…. Yeah?” Spike answered, his eyes darting between the two. “Aha! A point for me, then, Script!” announced the guardspony. “Very well! I concede you one more point, though I hardly know how our new player is going to make up any ground, as we’ve been playing all day,” Simple Script added, nodding towards Spike. Spike arched an eyebrow at both. “Naw… that’s fine, I guess… maybe?” “Now, my word,” announced Morning Mist, “is ‘filipendulous’.” “Adjective,” answered Simple Script without hesitation, “meaning ‘to suspend by a single string’.” “Drat!” yelled Morning Mist. They were playing a game. These two guardsponies were playing a word game. Spike’s eye twitched, and he wondered if it was really happening or if he’d finally gone mad. Just as he was about to tell his brown haversack to fly away as a test, a small group of dignitaries went walking up the hallway. As they did he watched as Morning Mist and Simple Script fell back into the practiced, regimented, stances of their kind. Refined earth pony muscles tensed, and Spike saw the two go into both their formal salute… and saw their quick eyes dance among the passing tour group, looking for dangers. Yes, Spike reminded himself, they really are Royal Guards. They just don’t shut up, is all. Soon the tour group of dignitaries, ones who seemed oblivious to the presence of the Princess of the Sun just beyond those doors, had disappeared down the hallways. “Come now, little dragon, have a go!” called Silent Script, breaking the silence. “Actually, ummm, I have something that I need… I kinda need to talk to the princess, so, if I could, please?” he said, wavering a bit on his feet. He fished through the haversack, bringing the scroll out and waving it in front of them as proof that he had reason to be there other than for some phonetic frolics. “Come now, young whelp,” Morning Mist answered, “give us one!” Did you just brush me off, you ass?! Spike thought. Drop dead! I’m trying to save… Spike startled, literally shaking as the realization that more bad words, and more angry thoughts, had gripped him. They were gaining control over him. His hands went over his mouth, and he stared back to the two guards with shame playing across his features. Okay, Spike, calm down. Keep cool. Twilight can’t wake up to a monster. She can’t wake up to a monster. “Oh, just one, my fine lad,” Morning Mist continued. “I’ve already exhausted my file partner’s vocabulary, you see!” “Ha! Not hardly!” laughed Simple Script. “Though, truth be told, you’ve always been highly spoken of, if we might say so… though your name does escape me at the moment. Test your intellect, then? Just one, then we’ll announce you, we promise.” Spike’s head swam back and forth, still recovering from his unhappy internal outburst. He recognized that they were playing with him, that no dignitary or official would be asked to do this… that they were looking on him as a little kid, or worse, just a creature, not a pony. But, no, they had complimented him, and they looked down over him with genuine, if distant, smiles, awaiting a word. “Just one?” the dragon asked from behind his hands. The duo nodded enthusiastically. Spike lifted his hands from his mouth, trying to think of a word. He looked at his fingers, his wrists, studying them. They had grown thinner over these last days, and the scales were beginning to pit. He wasn’t eating well, still, as he had eaten no gems at all since before that thing attacked Twilight, and it was starting to show. Twilight. Hands. “You’ve got quite the handful there, Spike!” Twilight giggled, her phantom once more walking around in front, a living memory weaving between the guards. Spike recalled this moment, a tiny little one that seemed banal at the time. He remembered his hands being full of scrolls. Twilight’s voice leapt to him as she continued. “You’ve got an absolute­…” “Gowpen,” Spike said, finishing Twilight’s sentence, announcing it to the two guards. He smirked to himself as the tassels upon their helmets tossed, and the two looked at one another in surprise. The two ponies fidgeted and made uncertain sounds. “Well, ummm, that surely is an interesting one!” Morning Mist said, laughing a small, puzzled laugh. “I certainly do wonder… is the root ‘gow’ or is it ‘pen’?” mumbled Simple Script. The two guards shuffled around, made pawing motions at the fine carpet, and mumbled about phonemes and parts of speech. Spike waited, looking at each as the moments flew by. Finally, after a long enough battle, the two ponies looked at one another, sighed, and turned to the little dragon. “Is it a noun?” asked Morning Mist. “A place for keeping… well, gows?” “Nope!” answered Spike with a satisfied chirp. “It’s a noun, though!” “Well then, is it a type of writing pen?” guessed Simple Script, appearing less than enthusiastic about his guess. “One used in a profession?” “Sorry!” Spike said, a happy laugh escaping him. “Well, my fine fellow,” asked Mist, “what is it, then?” Spike held his little clawed hands up to them, remembering the weight of scrolls filling his arms. “It means ‘two handfuls’!” he said, a cheeky blush coming over his face. Ponies don’t have hands, so how could they have guessed it? In his imagination, he felt Twilight rubbing his head, congratulating him on being clever and for maintaining his vocabulary. “Well played, boy, well played!” the stallions answered, clopping their hooves against the tiles. “Well played indeed!” “I suppose we should announce you now!” Script said, beginning to turn towards the door. “Name and title?” “Spike!” he said. “Summoner to Her Majesty’s Designate Twili…” Spike’s voice trailed off, leaving the two stallions at a loss. They turned to look at the little whelp, noticing his face falling. He wasn’t a summoner anymore. Only Royal Designates have summoners, little assistants who breathe messages from the princess. Twilight was a princess now, not a designate. When Twilight had gained her wings, he’d lost one more little thing that made him special. “Ummm,” Spike said, his mind’s eye falling through his little world. Twilight’s Number One Assistant? Was that a title? His teeth clenched. No… no it wasn’t a title. It was just something she told him, something that made him happy to hear her say. It made him happy because Twilight said it, because it proved him special to her. “Number One Assistant”, a term only of importance between the two of them, he realized. The words only mattered because Twilight had said them, had showed Spike how important he was to her. To anypony else, the words were meaningless. Spike sighed, and then went with the old standby. “Spike,” he said, some defeat showing in his voice, “the dragon.” “On what business?” asked Silent Script, sensing the little whelp deflating. “I’m trying to get a book out of the Royal Library, errrrr, Royal Archive, place… yeah,” he said, the words faltering in his mouth. “Very well,” answered Script, and at once the great doors of Princess Celestia’s private chambers came open. As the guardspony went inside, Spike straightened himself, hoping that he somehow looked better than the last time the Princess of the Sun had seen him. He gathered his haversack into his clawed hands, and then listened as the stallion announced him. Morning Mist tilted his head, studying the boy, and Spike could feel his eyes on him. It seemed as if there was something that needed to be said, but that neither had the power to say it. There were words, and soon Simple Script appeared back at the door. Spike stepped forward, ready to go speak with one of the few ponies he had known all of his life. That he bounced off of Simple Script was more of a shock to him on a personal level than a physical one… and hurt equally as bad in each way. “I’m sorry, Spike, but the princess is busy and, well,” the guard said, trying to paint some sympathy into his voice, “she can’t see you now.” Spike blinked, and then blinked again. “No. No, wait, did you tell her that this is really important? This is about Princess Twilight Sparkle. I told her, in a letter earlier, that I need help for something about Twilight, ” Spike said. The dragon fought to his feet, and in an instant he found himself fighting to move between the two guards. In an instant, he was reminded that they were, in point of fact, Royal Guardsponies. He stopped spinning at the top of the stairs. With a single toss he fell down the first few, finally catching himself as he fought for a breath. He went down on all fours, his head swimming. Whatever the guard had done, it had been decidedly martial in nature. Spike looked at the guard, shaking slightly. Their faces were cold, implacable. Spike stared at them, shaking and trembling noticeably. A dozen years ago he had gone toddling all over this palace, Twilight following along on her dainty filly hooves. He had been a great explorer, and to many it seemed that he had always found his way to Celestia’s warm, welcoming wings. Before Twilight had taken full custody of him, when she was too small a filly to bear such a responsibility, it was the Princess of the Sun who had sung him to sleep. He had come to her here in this very room as big, dumb adults had shouted about things. He had fallen asleep against her flank as issues great and small had been brought before the ancient sovereign. Now, he sat at the top of the stairs, trembling, shaking… … his body heaving with a rage that he could not name. Now, now that he really needed her help, now that Twilight needed her help… she had refused to see him? The guards saw him shaking, and Morning Mist looked down at his own hooves with a guilty look on his face. Mistaking Spike’s trembling for fear, the guardspony softened his expression, and spoke once more. “Awfully sorry, Spike,” the stallion said. “The training simply kicked in, is all.” “You… you know that she wouldn’t refuse to see you unless she was truly involved in something of utter importance,” Simple Script added. Spike pondered that for a bit, and slowly he felt himself getting better. Yes, that had to be it. Spike seated himself on the top stair, content to wait. He lowered his head into his hands, his back to the guards. He settled himself down further… … and that’s when the mare bounced over him. “Bonjour, gardes!” the mare called, bounding on great long strides of her long, beautiful legs. “Je suis arrivé! J'espère qu'elle n'a pas attendu longtemps?” “No, ma’am!” answered Morning Mist, “Her Highness has not been waiting long at all.” Spike turned, his eyes fixed on the mare. “Alors commençons tout de suite!” the mare said in a deliberate tone. “Yes ma’am, right away,” Simple Script answered, opening the door. Spike’s eyes went wide as the mare was ushered within Celestia’s chambers. His eyes fixed themselves past the door, and there, deep within, he caught sight of the radiant mane of the princess. And, in a flash, the door closed again. Two rather embarrassed looking Royal Guardponies stared back at him, each looking as though there was something that they desperately did not want to say. “Wow,” Spike breathed, “she must be really important, huh?” The two guards looked back up to Spike, and then quickly averted their eyes. “Oh, oh!” he said, excitedly jogging in place. “Lemme guess! She’s the regional governor of Prance!” Spike looked up to the stallions, trying to meet their eyes. If the princess had refused to see him, then that mare must be extremely important. Amazingly important! “Oh, now, wait!” he said, dancing around a little bit more. “I bet she’s a diplomatic liaison! Oh, oh, all sorts of really vital stuff must be going on in there if she…” Spike stopped suddenly, hovering in place for a moment before facing the guards again, a bright smile going across him. His imagination ran wild, and after a moment he turned to the guards with a knowing smirk. “So, she’s a spy, huh?” he said, leaning against the banister and checking his claws with a practiced distance. “That’s cool, if you can’t tell me. It’s just really neat to see that…” “Actually, Spike,” interrupted Morning Mist, snapping Spike back to attention, “Ms. Fleur is part of Princess Celestia’s personal staff.” Spike blinked. “Oh, okay, so… she is her Lady in Waiting, or her Chief of Staff?” Spike said, looking to the stallions. “She must be really important if the princess can’t see me right now…” “She’s… she’s her stylist,” Simple Script said, something catching in his throat. “I…what?” Spike choked. “Ms. Fleur is Princess Celestia’s personal mane stylist,” Simple Script continued, coughing slightly as he did. “What?” “Well, you know, my fine fellow,” Morning Mist said, leaning in when Simple Script appeared to be growing incommunicative, “Her Majesty’s mane is rather special, as it were.” There was the sound of something ripping, a tearing sound. Spike heard the sound, and it startled him. Looking down into his own hands he discovered, much to his surprise, that it wasn’t the last of his frayed nerves that had been torn asunder. Instead, somehow, he had apparently lifted the scroll from his haversack, the very same scroll that Celestia had sent him not half an hour before. It was the one that had brought him out of the library. He had torn it in two, not even knowing that he had done so. He looked down to see Celestia’s seal torn perfectly in two, broken by his hands. Then, with some small amount of effort, he unclenched his jaw, and let his hands relax so that they weren’t balled up in fists. “If… if you’ll simply have a seat, I’m certain that the princess will be with you shortly,” Simple Script said. “You know, once she’s finished the rather important… getting her mane styled…” Both guards shifted uncomfortably. To their relief they saw Spike begin to seat himself at the top of the stairs. Why? the dragon pondered, once more placing his head in his hands. Why isn’t the princess helping me? Spike looked down, and there he saw the two halves of the scroll bobbling along, wavering on the stairs. He wondered how it had even gotten into his hands. Was he so tired, so close to his ragged edge, that his body was doing things without him knowing? He lifted the torn remnants, and looked them over gently. If the princess doesn’t help me, then I won’t be able to get Call the books he needs. If I can’t do that, then we can’t find out what’s wrong with Twi and stuff. If I can’t figure that out, then I can’t tell the doctors what type of curse… enchantment, spell.... thingy she’s under! And, and if I can’t do that, then Twi will never… Spike felt the scroll crumpling in his hands. No. No, he refused to let his thoughts stray there. He refused to believe that Twilight would never leave that bed. “Come now,” Morning Mist said, “let us continue our game! Now, I do believe that Spike won the last round, so he goes again. Come now, young dragon, give us another word!” “Naw,” Spike said, his thoughts spreading out wide and thin as he studied the torn, crumpled halves of the scroll. “Naw, you go ahead and take my turn. I’ll just… listen along…” “Oh, very well then,” Morning Mist continued, some concern showing in his voice. “In that case, the word is ‘gargalesis’, and for extra points you can define its adjective form, ‘gargalesthesia’.” “So it’s a noun then, again?” said Simple Script. “It is indeed!” “Well then, let’s work through the roots. Any clues, Spike?” asked the second stallion. “I’m guessing it doesn’t have much to do with gargling,” Spike sighed, placing the two halves of the scroll in his haversack, not knowing why. “Tickling,” Script announced. “Gales… wind. Laughter, as in the wind brought forth by tickling. In fact, heavy tickling, as done between a parent and a child. Gar, ‘great’, after all. Therefore, ‘gargalesthesia’ is the sensation brought about by a good firm tickling.” “Drat!” answered Morning Mist. Tickling. A good firm tickle. Spike’s mind flew back to the library, the study old live oak that had become his home. His home. His home was wherever Twilight was, and that home had been the best one. He missed it terribly. Tickling. In his head he heard his own laughter as Twilight pursued him around the library on stormy, sleeting days that rattled the windowpanes and sloshed around the house. She’d catch him, and with a raspberry she’d find his ticklish spots, each one a secret that only they knew, and his laughter would fill their little home. He’d catch her, too, and her dulcet laughter would fill the library again and again. Her laughter would fall around the fireplace, the photographs, the letters from her family… … and they’d be happy. “I suppose you can guess the meaning of ‘knismesis’, then?” Morning Mist said, arching an eyebrow. “A light tickling,” Simple Script answered, drawing another curse from his file partner. A light tickle, a gentle touch. Spike’s mind flew back to pressing his hand on Twilight’s leg, dropping the comfort of his presence into her as she had some of her worst days. Being there for her, sharing things with her, being with her in their little home... that’s who he was. That was Twilight’s Number One Assistant. He closed his eyes, and pictured them there. The smell of the books met him, but it was not a princess who strode across the floor to meet him. It was just Twi… just his Twi. Okay, yeah, Owliscious, too. That was what he was being denied. That is what was being stolen from him every moment Twilight lay in that bed. Why won’t the princess help me?! What’s wrong with her?! Doesn’t she know!? Doesn’t she care?! What’s going on, why won’t anypony... Spike shuttered, startled, and forced himself to breath. He pushed the anger out, let it fly away. Twilight can’t wake up to a monster. Twilight can’t wake up to a monster. Twilight can’t wake up to a monster, he repeated, chanting his inner mantra until the anger had flown out of his body, until only the lingering exhaustion remained. Or, at least he thought he did. “Psithurism,” Morning Mist said. “Gah!” Spike cried, throwing his hands up in the air. “Who comes up with these words?” With that, the guards watched as a rather unhappy looking dragon boy begin to descend the steps. Halfway down, the dragon stopped. His fingers came up to his chin, and his head sat in one hand as the fingers of the other drummed against his haversack. Yeah, well, Twilight won’t wanna see a monster, he thought. But, she already kinda knows that I can be a little bit sneaky… If the princess would not help him, then Spike decided that he would help himself. With that, he went off to be a naughty little dragon… … a naughty little dragon indeed. On the other side of the vast, white doors of her private chambers, past the guards and their game, Princess Celestia sat politely, making small talk with Fleur de Lis, her stylist. The graceful mares made quite a sight, the unicorn holding the shimmering locks of the princess’s mane aloft, softly pulling out any of the imperfections that dare hide in the flowing currents. As she did she made small talk. The alicorn listened politely, adding comments of her own in Fancy, though her dialect in that language was slightly older than she may have liked. Fleur replied enthusiastically, making observations as she practiced her craft. Though, truth be told, not observant enough, for she missed the sigh that had drifted out of the princess, and the glow of the magic that had, among other things, allowed the sovereign to hear all that had transpired beyond the door. Ponies went up and down the aisles of the archives, their muzzles buried in their books. Scholars, academics, diplomats, theologians, students, and those with a love of learning in general… these all silently made their way up and down the corridors. One such pony, Carbon Copy, was doing some rather fascinating research on the ancient heresies involved in the plumbing techniques of Canterlot’s sewer system. His mind raced as he flipped through the papers and books that hovered in his magic. It can’t be possible, he thought, the facts of the matter unraveling themselves before his eyes. If… if the sewers are laid out just so, then that means that… that… “Waggghhhhh!” he cried, tumbling to the ground, his papers, books, and train of thought flying out around him. Carbon Copy groaned. His eyes settled across a thin line of red that stretched out before him. His eyebrow arched, and he looked on as it unwound itself in front of him, the little bows showing where the individual pieces of red tape had been tied together. He panned his head back where the great ball of red tape stood, decreasing imperceptibly as somepony, or something, unwound a line of the clerical cord. His eyes followed it, seeing that it snaked out towards the doors to the bridge that lead to the annex, the turreted tower that held the other part of the archive. “Huh,” he said, lifting himself to his hooves. “Imagine that. I wonder what that’s all about.” He gathered his papers and books, and then set about trying to regain his gathering epiphany about the deep, dark secrets of Canterlot’s sewer system. Had he been slightly more curious, and had Carbon Copy followed the trail of red tape, he would have discovered something slightly more intriguing that the sacrilege found in Equestrian plumbing. What he would have discovered was a dragon whelp standing on the ornate banister of the bridge, wrapped in large loops and knots of red tape, and apparently getting ready to jump into the stream. “Well,” Spike said aloud, “this is it then, I’ve gone nuts.” He slapped his hands together, rubbed them in anticipation, flexed his knees… and then gripped upon the banister and shook like an army of multi-flavored gelatin ponies practicing to set the world record for dancing the “Manehattan Shake”. Pinkie and her hobbies, he thought. Spike sighed, and then sat up. He blinked as he looked down to the cord of red tape that sat wrapped around him. He had read a Coltscout guidebook, and in doing so he had taught himself any number of knots. Half a dozen of them, of varying practicality, sat upon his scales, the red dye of the tape leaving little marks against him. He lifted his eyes, and looked over his shoulder at the turreted tower to his right. There, below him, sat a window, the one closest to the water. That window, he knew, was the one to the room that Artificer Call said that they needed opened, the one that they needed to get into, to find one book at least and perhaps thousands more. All that he had to do was swing down there, break in through the window, find the book, break the seal on the door, and then sneak out and pretend that he’d actually gotten permission to have it opened. “Oh,” he said, leveling his trademark snark against himself, “is that all?” “Why?” Spike leapt in place, nearly knocking himself off the banister. Grasping for the cord of tape he pulled himself back to upright, swiveled his head around… … and found Twilight staring at him. “Spike,” she said, concern painted in her voice. “Why?” He stared into her eyes for a second, but they weren’t her eyes. They were a memory of her eyes. Yes, this was just a memory, too. It was a memory of the time she had found him after he had run away, after he had thought her love withdrawn from him. He closed his eyes, forcing the memory to fade. He felt the cool marble of the banister reaching up to him, and the rush of the stream beneath him calmed his nerves. It would feel good to take a nap, right here, on this spring day as the sounds of Canterlot drifted along and past the bridge where he lay, the tiredness and exhaustion of the last two weeks playing around in his small frame. Then again, he was already wrapped in red tape. That type of thing just couldn’t be ignored. Why? he asked his memory as he stood, wobbling a bit. Because I’m tired of not having anybody to boss me around, Twi! He smirked to himself. He opened his eyes. The sound of the stream rushing beneath him filled his perception. Spike unfolded his arms, letting them go wide and spread out parallel to the banister of the bridge. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He focused on the distance. “Okay,” he said again, taking more deep breaths. “Okay.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve gone nuts,” he sighed, and with that he leaned backwards, and fell off the bridge. There was a rush of air and a sensation of powerlessness went through him, gravity holding sole dominion over the whelp. There was a gradual deceleration, and a resolute tug, and then something happened that he hadn’t been expecting. There was a feeling of being tossed, and suddenly he felt himself travelling… up? “Whoa,” Spike breathed as he opened his eyes. He’d somehow snapped backwards into the sky! The red tape, it was elastic! Rather than simply thudding him to a stop, it had pulled him back up into the air. His eyes went wide, and he plummeted again. Clenching his eyes shut he waited for the inevitable end of this wild ride, his stomach lurching about inside of him. Huh, he thought, more than a little surprised at how clear his thoughts were as he whipped around at the end of the red tape, I wonder if ponies would like a sport where ya jump off of high things only to get caught at the last second by cords and stuff? Spike’s stomach sent him signals that they would not. Well, maybe Pinkie would. Up, down, up, down, up… down, down. Slow, slower, stop. Spike opened his eyes to discover that he was hovering just above the stream. He blinked, and then discovered that his nose was just short of that of a large frog seated on a lilypad. “Ribbit,” it croaked, gauging him coldly. “Yeah?” Spike said as he dangled there. “Right back at ya, buddy.” Spike waited for his head to stop swimming and his stomach to stop protesting, and then he took a look at the scene around him. Well, he thought, there’s the stream, so that’s a thing. A frog is a thing, too. “Ribbit.” “That’s neat,” Spike said, turning his body so that he could take in more of his surroundings. “Cool story, tell it again.” He looked up to the underside of the bridge. It loomed over him, and the thin red line of cloth suddenly seemed woefully inadequate. The great arched surface of the archive stood on his right, and he turned from its shining surface to look for the turreted annex. "I'm filipendulating," he said, dangling a participle. He chuckled to himself as a ringing grew louder in his ears, blood pooling in his brain. He looked around. There, on his left, embedded on the surface of the turreted tower, stood the window. The one that mattered. “Well, wish me luck, frog guy,” Spike said as he started to swing, leaning his weight back and forth. “Ribbit.” “Why ya gotta be that way, bro?” Spike asked, passing the frog for the first time. The two shared glances as Spike went past slowly, and then faster, and finally he was making great wide arcs across the stream, coming closer and closer to the walls each time. “Uh oh,” Spike said, watching the clear, alabaster surface of the archive coming closer. His stomach was doing somersaults that made jumping off the bridge seem like nothing. The wind whistled past his ears as he swung higher and higher, his heart thudding as he heard each little ripple through the thin cord of red tape. “I’m insane,” he told himself, watching the hard, unyielding, whelp-splattering walls of the annex and the archive growing nearer with each swing. “I’m friggin’ crazy.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he called out, arching his back as he spun along. “Yipes!” he cried aloud, grasping at the linen cord. The rough stone exterior of the annex appeared before him, and Spike made one grasp for it, striking out with his claws. The stones squealed, and Spike went spinning through the air once more, swinging back towards the water! “Crud! Crud, crud, dang! Dang, shoot, dang, crud!” he cried, letting an elementary-school grade string of profanities escape his lips as he passed the frog and approached the unblemished surface of the archive wall once more. Just as he approached it he brought his legs in. “I’m nuts,” he said to nopony. “I’m crazy!” Just as he reached his apex, his scales a fraction of an inch from the carved arches of the archive, he thrust his feet out, pushing off the walls of the archive. He rocketed down, the speed of his swing greater than before. “Ribbit,” the frog said, watching the dragon fly past. Spike could not respond, he already had his claws extended, his mind focusing on the spot where they had failed to gain purchase before. He braced himself, readying for the impact. The stones drew closer, and with that he crashed into the wall. “No! No, no, no!” he cried, his claws scrambling over the surface. His feet and hands caught, slipped, caught again, and then failed to grasp the slick stones. There was a lurch, and Spike blinked. His teeth. He was holding onto the stones with his teeth. Mighty incisors and canines designed to tear at diamonds and sapphires anchored him to the wall, holding him there by his enamel. Whoa, he thought. Suddenly he was very sorry for ever giving Twilight a hard time about dragging him to the dentist. Not that he was a fan of the dentist having to use a power sander on his teeth, but still… Spike extended his feet, and with some effort he latched onto the hard stone surface. His right hand came out, his claws glistening. Pressing them into the stones they found spaces amid the cracks, and though he was a small dragon, the gifts of his kind worked through the faults and fissures of the rocks. He had made it this far. Now came the hard part. He reached his left hand behind him, making to cut away the cord of red tape, freeing him from his tether. To his startled amazement, the second he pulled on it the cord snapped, the loose end fluttering through the air before falling into the stream, draping itself across the frog as it settled into the water. “Ribbit,” it said, regarding the linen balefully. “Whoa,” Spike said, realizing how close he had been to tumbling into the water. He looked down beneath him. The window was about four of his own body lengths below. He grumbled under his breath, and then began his descent. His claws scraped and skittered across the surface, and twice he nearly fell off, his yelps of surprise echoing along the surface of the stream. “Ribbit,” the frog said, watching Spike cling to the stones of the wall. “No comments from the peanut gallery!” Spike answered in a huff, and once more he began to move down the surface. “I’m nuts,” he repeated to himself, over and over as he slowly descended, making his way inch by inch. “I’m crazy, I’m, like, full-on crazy.” His feet reached out, and found nothing. He slipped, cried… and landed on the windowsill. Spike spun about, surprised, and then realized what had happened. Looking around once more, he realized his stroke of luck, and with a self-congratulatory smile he spoke to himself one more. “Yeah, I’m crazy,” he said, smirking wide. “Crazy like a fox!” “Ribbit,” said the frog. “Yeah, I know that doesn’t really work, but I’m havin’ a rough day,” Spike answered, energy leaving him. He rubbed his hands across his eyes, and then looked at the window. Upon examining it, he rubbed his eyes again. It was covered in black steel bars. It was thick, with a rippled surface that suggested lead glass. It was secure, stuck fast deep within the frame of the window. “Shoot,” Spike said, looking it over. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He hadn’t honestly thought that he could get this far. He half expected to have been caught, or to have been washed away to the waterfalls beyond. Instead, here he sat on the ledge of the window, above the stream… stopped just short of his goal. “Shoot,” he repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. With a sigh he began to rummage through the haversack, the brown bag having stayed wrapped tight to his side with the red tape. All that sat within was the torn halves of the scroll and an unopened “fun size” box of Mairsy Dotes. Wait, where had that come from? His hands came up to his mouth, and he shook in genuine horror. Had, had he stolen it in the market? Was he so withdrawn that he hadn’t even noticed picking it up? Had he forgotten to pay for it? Had some small part of him, the encroaching monster, willfully stole it? He picked the box out of the haversack, and beat it against the window. The stream continued to roll along, the frog staring up with an arched brow. “I can’t believe I thought that would work,” Spike sighed, putting the breakfast cereal, snack food, and furniture polish combination back in his haversack. He sat there, on the ledge, hovering between the bridge above and the stream below, his eyes going to the imposing surface of the window, the black bars and frosted glass mocking him. He sighed once more, and put his head in his hands. Twi, he thought, I’m trying so hard. I’m trying so hard, Twi, but… but I don’t know if I can do this. I mean, all I want to do is… He sighed and leaned back against the window. “Wah!” he called, and with that he tumbled backwards into the room beyond the window, the gated surface being unlatched the whole time. “Ribbit,” said the frog. The room was dark, and it smelled like every old, musty library Twilight had ever brought him to magnified a thousand times over. He blinked, rubbed his head, and panned his eyes across the room. Spike grimaced. His thoughts suddenly turned from every library he had visited to every time he had been made to clean up the library back in Ponyville. It wasn’t dirty per se. It wasn’t dusty or filthy… but it was disorganized, scrolls and books and ledgers laying in piles. He stood up, and immediately he startled, watching a tower of scrolls collapse on his left. Twilight would freak out, he thought, coasting his eyes around the room. As he did he imagined the frothing, twitching mess his best friend would dissolve into at seeing so many ancient texts disregarded so utterly. She’d go totally bucking... Spike clamped his hands across his mouth. He was swearing again, if even to himself. Something moved at the far side of the room, making Spike jump in alarm. He skittered in place before diving into a pile of texts. Looking out from behind his book fort he saw a loose page of a tome tossing in a breeze that fell from the open window. With a sigh, he reached up and closed it, casting himself into a dingy yellow light. He turned, and picking up the first book on his right he began to walk the room, searching for the door. He thumbed through the book, his eyes catching across a few words. Realizing it was nothing he needed, he set the book down. When he lifted his hand, he saw that something had attached to it. Squinting, he looked down, and there he saw a thin trail of magic lifting something black to the back of his hand. When he lifted his hand farther he saw that they were words. Words were lifting off of a piece of paper, some ancient, yellowed parchment, and sticking to his hand. Magic. This room… it was enchanted. There were magical works here. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, panning his head around and looking for the door. He looked down to see the words creeping off the paper, wrapping his hand like a grapevine slowly growing up a trellis. “Gah!” he cried, flicking his hand through the air. To his relief the words scattered back over the page, landing awkwardly and with no relation to where they had begun. “Okay,” he said, some small panic in his voice, “yeah, I shouldn’t be here by myself!” He scrambled over piles of books, and a small oak case came open as he did. Two crystal orbs suddenly illuminated within. They began draping the room in red words, prophecies of doom and peril, the letters spilling from their surface in a golden light. “Didn’t see that! Didn’t see that!” Spike said, covering his eyes as he leapt along. “Nothin’s happening here! La, la, la, la, la!” The door, the vast wooden door with its steel fixtures, appeared before him as he peeked out from behind his fingers. The seal sat upon it, the yellow wax sitting deeply in the grooves behind the frame. Spike’s claws extended again, and in an instant they had sunk deep into the soft, yielding beeswax, and the feel of magic wrapped around his hands. He startled, took a small breath, and then waited to see if the magic would attack him. To his surprise, it did not. “Huh,” he said, feeling the protective magic sink through him and then down into the stones, “not much of a seal, then, I guess.” The wax came off in one long, rubbery cord. He pulled on it harder and harder, grunting and heaving as it reached the top corners of the door, as it stretched and ran in the grooves as it met the hinges. “C’mon, c’mon!” he called aloud with a groan. There was a slick sound, and the wax pulled loose, and with that he tumbled to the ground. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his head. Spike looked down to the wax cord, very much like taffy in its elasticity. His head waved back and forth, and there he saw the red tape harness he had made for himself still sitting around him and his haversack. “Yeah, that wouldn’t look suspicious at all,” he said, slicing at it with his claws. Soon he was free of the tape, and with it and the cord of wax gathered in his claws he went back around the room, looking for a place to hide the evidence of his forced entry. He looked up to find himself staring at an immense griffon. Oddly, Spike did not startle as he had many times that day, and he found himself oddly comfortably with the painting, as though he suddenly did not feel so alone in the room. The two orbs dropped more dread and despair around him, and Spike moved quickly. The griffon drake was huge, noble, regal, and he stared back at Spike from within the confines of a painting that hung above an old sofa, the cushions seeming to be deflated and exhausted as he was. Deflated? Spike smirked to himself. “Do ya mind if I put these here?” he asked the large griffon. When there was no reply, Spike stuffed the cushions with the evidence of his trespassing, and then turned back towards the door. The metal lever stood right above him, just too high for him to reach by himself. He gave one jump, but the black handle escaped his grasp. Spike grumbled and looked around. He selected a book that stood on a nearby stand and laid it on the floor. It wasn’t very big, but it did the job. His hand wrapped around the handle, and he lifted it as slowly and as delicately as he could, lest somepony outside should hear. He moved it by fractions, taking and it seemed to take minutes to lift the metal. He breathed shallowly, fought to keep his muscles from twitching. Spike strained against the lever, desperately trying to keep it as slow and quiet as possible. The latch thudded into place, a harsh metallic ring sounding out throughout the annex. “Great,” Spike said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose once again, “really, really great.” He inched forward, and poked his nose out into the hallway. The scene that he had left more than two hours ago greeted him, the same stairwell he had climbed when the princess had sent him the note. The writ hung on the door, and Spike quickly reached up and tore it away, folding it over and over and placing it in his haversack. Artificer Call was nowhere to be seen. Spike turned back into the room, and reached down to pick up the book he had used as a stepladder. He began to walk back to the small table he had lifted it from, one very close to the door, and as he walked he looked the room over for any other evidence that he had forced it open. Seeing none, he smiled another self-satisfied smirk, and then lifted the book up to where he had taken it. His eyes passed over it, simply swept across it as he lifted it up, and then they went wide. He read the title again, and then again. No way. It could not be that easy, not for Spike. No, nothing had been that easy, not since that thing had attacked Twilight. No, it could not be this easy. It couldn’t be. “And so, my dear, we travelled along the Amarezon for several days,” Artificer Call said, following along beside Reference Desk as she made her rounds. “You are aware that the Amarezon is one of the longest rivers on Equus, undoubtedly, but did you know that it is also one of the principal routes of transportation in…” “Yes,” she answered, barely looking up from her work. “Splendid! Now, when I met the king­–“ Call continued, impressing his worldly experiences upon the mare. “Hey, Call,” said a small voice. “This can’t be the book we need to start lookin’ at artifacts around the world, could it?” Spike lifted it up, the slightly faded words Artifacts: An Equus Inventory standing out from the navy blue in a flash of gold. “­–of course, now… oh, yes, Spike, it is. Fancy that!” The mare and the stallion looked down at Spike, and the whelp tried to hide a shudder of dread as the mare’s eye twitched. “That… that is a reference book!” she said, her even, cold tone coming as close to a hiss as her demeanor would allow. “It should not ever leave its place in the archives, which is…” Her eye twitched harder. “That was in a special collections room that was sealed by the princess herself for an inventory!” Reference Desk stepped forward, and Spike felt ten to twelve years of his life expectancy dropping out of him. “No… no taking books out of special sections! No… no breaking seals! This, this is a bannable offense! This, this…” “Now, Reference Desk,” Artificer Call said, trotting forward, “this is all understandable. Why, I watched Spike receive a message from Celestia herself a few hours ago!” Spike’s eyes flew between the mare and stallion, and he used the book to hide his throat so that they would not see him gulp. The dance of lies had begun. “Now, Spike, I’m sure that you can explain, can’t you?” Artificer Call said, the Pinto earth pony gesturing to the whelp with his hoof. “The… the room,” Spike chirped. “The room. It’s open now. I… I just came out of there.” The stallion smiled, tossed his mane, and looked back to the mare. “Come now, Reference Desk, the poor lad. He’s had such a hard time of it,” Call said, straightening himself, leaning close, and generally looking like he was either playing at the mare’s senses or having a stroke. “Obviously, the princess came to his aid, isn’t that so, Spike?” Spike tried to hide how fast his hearts were beating. “I… I went to the palace,” he said, trying to meet the librarian’s eyes. “I went to see her. I went to see Princess Celestia.” Reference Desk, who seemingly was unaware of Call’s flirtations, looked down over the whelp, her frigid stare driving icicles through him. “And you saw her?” the librarian asked. The recollection of a single glimpse of a mane alive with the morning sun flashed through Spike, and he latched onto it, forcing a lie to come alive with the shadow of the truth. “I… I saw her, I really did!” he said, giving a single shudder. Reference Desk stared down over him, weighing him. Seeing the moment at a tipping point, Spike flew into a distraction. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a reference book! I’ll take it right back down and put it right where I found it! I promise!” he said, clutching the book to his chest. Reference Desk held her gaze for a moment, and then lifted her head. “Special collections,” she said, her voice once more distant, absent of even the faintest hint of emotions which they had whiffed of a moment before, “do not leave the special collections rooms.” She turned from the dragon and the stallion, and began to walk away. “You are required to sign a waiver before copying any materials,” she said, sliding away, disappearing between the rows of bookshelves. Spike tried to force himself to stop shaking. Call took the book down to the newly unsealed room, offering to do so since he believed that Spike’s obvious distress was gastronomical rather than mental. Rather than heading to the bathroom, the dragon headed in another direction. Spike walked as fast as he could, knowing that running would earn him a reprimand from the librarian lurking in the stacks of books. He made a familiar turn, and there sat the last piece of evidence. “Ribbit,” said the frog, looking up to Spike. “You don’t know the half of it, buddy,” the dragon said, lifting the red tape up to himself. He began to coil it around his arms, making it retract back towards the ball that sat beyond. It was cold and wet, and the part that had been sitting above the stream had seemed to fade. Spike kept coiling. As he worked his way back towards the ball, his mind raced. He was exhausted, tired, and running on reserves. He was getting angrier and angrier, and he was swearing in his own mind… and aloud. He was… he was lying. The great lesson he had learned from Twilight and Owliscious, he had put that aside, and was lying. He had lied. He had withheld the truth and manipulated it to his gain. As he approached the ball, he wondered how it would come back and bite him. He wondered if there would be anything of him left when Twilight woke up. Twilight must not wake up to a monster, Twilight must not wake up to a monster, he said over and over, repeating his mantra. Twilight must… “Waaaggghhh!” a pony cried, and Spike snapped out of his contemplation as a stallion tripped across him, his coil falling out of his arms as papers, books, and plumbing schematics flew around them. Rubbing their heads, the dragon and the stallion looked at one another. Carbon Copy looked at the coils of red tape sitting across Spike’s lap. Spike looked at Carbon Copy’s papers, “Conspiracy!” sitting across them in big, red letters. The two looked at one another with mild shock. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell!” they cried in unison, earning a shushing from the more studious occupants of the archive.