Starstruck

by Vest


Epilogue

Epilogue

Sunset blazed across the hills, presenting the writer with a vista that could not be beat. Even after a thousand years, she couldn’t believe that this singular view only improved. To her left, the sky burned with the myriad colors of the sunset, careless oranges and deep bands of pure crimson as the last vestiges of day burned and melted away. To her right, the night steadily rolled in, the deep blues and silvery light chasing away the sun and locking Equestria in the few moments where both could be experienced at the same time. Winter still clung to the trees and hills with frosty cloaks of white, but the poet didn’t mind the cold, at least for awhile. Plains of snow and ice reflected the budding moonlight, amplifying the shine until the world glowed with a soft silver light.

And, right in the center of her view, still glittering with lingering frost, Canterlot stood proudly. White towers and ziggurats curled lazily into the air and, like the sky itself, the lights of day faded to be replaced by the twinkling hints of light at night. While this panorama had changed very little since she last took it in, those lights were different as the city, instead of settling to sleep, took on a new life of its own.

Looking down at the immediate task, the poet’s eyes danced over the older work, disjointedly trying to figure out the starting point. For a moment, it was difficult to believe that things had changed so much over a few days that a mere roll of paper with words presented a challenge. It was enough to cause the writer to laugh into the night sky for a long minute. Taking only long enough to ignite a small gas lamp, the writer took up a quill and began to scratch words anew, not allowing the fading light to stop her. With a dip of tip in a small inkpot, the poet began scribing and scrawling.

Millennium's dusk, history takes shape;
A dawn of events that turn the landscape.
Banished the day with night's eternal drape,
When the stars conspired in her escape.

Overwhelming spells, ferocious and loose;
Possessed, lucky, or just magic abuse?
And what of that mare, the falling caboose?
Glass ceiling shatters, and more to deduce.

Two souls collide at the end of the day,
Beneath the Archives, a secret betrayed,
Determined reprieve, they’re driven away,
Fugitives of life through an opened way.

Even though only a few weeks had passed since the first disturbance, the first state breaking free to begin the stars’ gambit, it felt even more distant to the writer. In its own way, the story didn’t begin there, but a thousand years before that night when Princess of the Night struck her fateful bargain with fate. A single decision that rippled outward and affected the lives of everypony in Equestria in some small way, and a smaller group of ponies in a far more profound way.

The author paused in the middle of a line to ruminate. It was funny to the writer how much of fate was built on the decisions of others, even those one might never meet or see. Every fate is bound to countless others, and tied in ways that could not be grasped by anypony’s mind, even the Princesses in all of their wisdom. One change leads to another, and those changes cascaded into further changes.

The author’s head hurt. Delving too deeply into this line of thinking always brought that about, though at the same time, the writer knew full well that those thoughts were not uncommon amongst those who experienced the full fury of the stars when their plans were disrupted. Some of them adapted and overcame better than others.

Devon Bookmark found strength not only in his ironclad willpower, but in his renewed purpose and desire to defend the world he found himself in.Princesses Celestia and Luna looked to their wisdom and experience. Even Sergeant Jetstream, ignorant of the greater devices of the stars, sprung from their manipulations to find purpose in duty. The poet? The poet coped as best as possible, but did not hide from the fact that some damage was deep, so deep that it might never truly be healed. Comfortingly, the knowledge was not angering or embittering, but it gave the writer a goal, a point to set their course to, a course of their choosing.

Everypony would heal, the poet finally concluded with a satisfied smile. Nothing ever broke so bad as to be completely lost. After all, to accept something as irreparable would be to surrender before knowing it was finally over, to give up a chance at victory. That would never fly with the author. More reminiscing threatened to completely derail the author’s quill. Taking the time to adjust the lamp, the writer brought the quill pen dancing to life once again.

Running, missing, not wanting found?
The Captain cannot locate the crowned.
Through darkened caverns, two ponies bound
In truth below, receding underground.

Two quickly seeking two others to find.
Two seeking their past, two close behind.
One pulls on the chain, one suffers blind.
All secrets can hide, but none stay confined.

Astray and jaded by a past they drink,
Focus pulled faded, moods falter and sink.
Yet when lost in blues, just laugh and blink,
Clarity imbues in a blast of pink.

Night had finally settled in by the time the author looked up from the scroll, taking only the time to work out a growing strain in the neck and regard the scene again. By this hour, the sunset had been completely chased off, and the stars filled the sky again, drawing Equestria into a cobalt blanket of twinkling silver. Canterlot stood all the more brightly now, pale moonlight accenting the ivory towers and spires. Dozens of lit windows spoke of the city still hard at work even this late into the night, all the way up to the balcony of the Palace where the Princess of Night watched out over the dreams of Equestria.

Mirroring the lights of the city, high above the stars twinkled. Were it not for the experience and knowledge, the poet might have been driven to inspiration by their sight. One cost to everypony involved, it seemed, was that the night sky no longer was a place of peace and wonder, but a window where an unreachable maliciousness stared back at them, a constant looming threat to the folly of reckless wishing and meddling with forces beyond one’s comprehension. Lifting eyes to the stars, the author scowled, angry at the impotence of anger at fate itself. But the toothless anger gave way to the satisfaction that the stars probably shared the same emotion. HIgh atop their astral mountain, the stars were just as powerless as the poet to directly influence or change the stalemate. Their pawn in Devon had been placed in such a way that they could only speak to him, and had no ability to direct him.

Even though the author could guess at their intentions, it was impossible to know what the stars truly thought of all of this. They certainly were not talking to anypony but the charcoal unicorn. Gazing up at the night sky hanging above Equestria, the writer tried to understand the voices were most certainly there, but silent and removed. Were they still trapped in the same rage? Had they moved on to some new scheme? Did they plot revenge? For all the author knew, everything leading up to this point could have been nothing more than their next plot coming together. It would not be beyond the scope of beings to whom the life of a single pony was nothing more than a passing moment that would barely be noticed.

The writer sucked the tip of the quill as the unsettling question sought roots in the unsettling corners of thought and imagination. However, where before that thought may have spread like wildfire and filled the heart with doubt, this time there was no fear or concern. Unlike before, they would no longer stumble blindly, they understood the astral machinations.

Swallowed in treasure, they hold their place
Challenged by humbleness and showing grace.
False images within the mirror’s face
Find reflection with the gifts of space.

Where wind can't weather, the stone birds sleep.
Head under feather, slumbering heap.
Cobalt awakens, greets him in peeps.
Imprint unshaken, she's fallen too deep.

Pulled face first under, to crystalline trance.
Regains his thunder, a second chance.
Memory’s eyes foretell, hold guarded stance,
They rest a spell, in ethereal dance.

And part of that understanding was in how they separated the power. Of all the pieces, only the gauntlet received the kind of heavy guard and reverence that ancient powerful relics were expected to get, enshrined in the deepest vaults of Canterlot’s treasury and under the same stern guardianship as other valuables. The pendant, by contrast, did not disappear into obscurity. Since the magic only affected the Bookmarks, Princess Luna wore it regularly, her own presence and strength providing more than adequate protection for the artifact. While the pendant was only merely under her supervision, the Princess of the Night insisted on keeping it with her, both as a reminder to maintain her vigil, and to remind of of what the journey brought her.

Finally, the catalyst between the two treasures, Devon Bookmark, was not watched at all. No guards shadowed his movements and he never had to keep in touch for the sake of keeping his gift hidden. The charcoal unicorn simply lived on, never losing the respect or understanding of the power that the stars granted the unwilling colt so long ago, yet never letting that weight dominate his path. Like his lack of magic, it simply was, and growing tunnel vision on that one trait did not matter to him, or those important to him.

Naturally, he could not fully ignore it either. The poet was not present at the time, but when Devon performed his first ‘listening’ with the stars, evidently they were still angry. While the experience shook the unicorn greatly, he was not surprised by it either, realizing that facing the astral rage was part of understanding how he interacted with fate and how he read destiny. Plus, as Devon quickly reminded those concerned for his power after the first time he listened to fate again, he weathered the stars’ force once, and even if his willpower were to break, the unicron was powerless to act on their behalf.

The author knew it was not cause for complete relaxation, though. Firsthoof experience taught that the stars, even if they did not understand how ponies thought or felt, they did understand the concept of frail mortality, and how infinitely small a pony’s lifespan was in their perspective. If the stars wanted revenge, it might come centuries from now, or it might come tomorrow hidden so well that nopony could even recognize the danger before they were all under enslavement again. All it would take is some shortsighted need for a wish, or a right-minded but misguided attempt to fix the world for the better, to build new deals with the stars. The poet shuddered at the thought that Devon might see impending disasters coming from far away, yet could only watch, lest they be new trap set by fate.

But they all had to move forward now, every last one of them had to continue on, otherwise the stars would win by breaking their spirits. Disasters may come, the astral overlords may attempt their revenge, but like Devon, they could never break them. Comforted by the thought, the poet lowered the quill into the ink before pressing it back into the scroll.

A remaining deed, give life that she chose.
Lost love guaranteed, in strife to repose.
An aurora gleams, brings night to a close.
Freedom only dreams, moonlight only grows.

Breathing freedom due, in failure’s confines,
Hope should stand true, yet undermines.
Lost to the moon’s light, he missed all signs,
Memory takes flight, the sunrise shines.

Whispered cries with empty gaze,
Witnessed by starlight’s blaze.
Foalhoods lost in rapid phase,
By steps beyond the platinum haze.

Setting the quill down, the poet allowed the magic keeping the writing pace a moment to rest and refresh itself. Casting a glance to the wider world, the author realized that breaking the stars’ scheme set many destinies on new paths. Just like manipulating the strands of fate rippled to touch more and more lives, undoing the past mistakes allowed many other fates to turn to new paths, perhaps the paths that they were always meant to go on.

In the days following the battle, the newly-titled Sergeant Jetstream had taken more than his fair piece of fame and attention. While the adulation from the population at large came not from his assistance to Devon, but his heroism when the statue garden attacked the city, Celestia understood the deeper significance of his involvement. Not all heroes need bedeck themselves in medals and honors, and Jetstream asked for none of the praise, it was all part of the job, both as a guardspony and as a citizen of Equestria. The author had not seen much of him since the gala, their lives diverting radically, though nopony near the city could escape the news of the rookie guard who stepped up in the face of insurmountable odds, and whose success translated into dozens of requests for new officers all across Equestria. The poet did not remember where, but with Shining Armor’s blessing, Sergeant Jetstream as well as Private Stormblade, embarked on an airship to Baltimare, eagerly expected by the nobility of Horseshoe Bay.

The earth pony officer’s path, too, twisted and wove. Despite his ravenous and destructive ambition, it was Jetstream who stepped forward to maintain his former commander’s ego. By that time, shame and discovery finally caught up with him, but stubborn pride did not allow him to break. But the cyan pegasus understood him better than anypony else, insisting that allowing him to accompany him to Baltimare would remove him from his disgrace and give the earth pony a new chance.

Far apart from the bombastic triumph of the guardspony, Ghasen Bookmark preferred a very different form of reflective isolation than what the poet decided on. Much like the author, there was a great span of years where even the notion of freedom was an exotic ideal, something to dream about. Yet, Ghasen did not shy away from culpability in the incident. Unlike the descendant Bookmark, he fell under the sway of the stars, a self-serving wish dooming him and his bloodline to an eternity of servitude. While his actions may have come as a result of blackmail and exploitation, he insisted on taking on as much responsibility as Celestia would allow him to take, he readily, maybe even happily, retreated into the dusty margins of Canterlot, only emerging from time to time to advise Devon and aid in the interpretation of the stars’ words. But the poet never saw Ghasen, and indeed, preferred it that way.

Thoughts of Ghasen caused a small rumble of discontent through the author. They did not burn or sting as badly as before, as knowledge of what happened to him granted a level of logical understanding. But it was not enough to undo the hurt of their shared past within the writer’s heart. Maybe someday, they might speak again, but both of them had many long beginnings and redemptions to face before that day came and despite never speaking, both understood that on some primordial level. Sometime, but not now.

Conflicts within, memories storm,
Icy kinship that once was warm.
A desperate gambit to perform,
Harmony sincerest lost to reform

Within his reach, his luck improves,
A window opens, mother approves.
Numbed in body, yet he still moves,
Dropping lifeless in cobalt hooves.

Subdued of thought, devoid in word.
The nocturne plays, but isn’t heard.
In silent comfort, world blurred,
The moonflower, and hummingbird.

A flash of movement drew the poet’s attention away from the parchment once again. Barely perceptible in the murky night sky, the sleek shape of Princess Luna’s chariot drew out from Canterlot Palace, a streak of cobalt against the black and star-studded sky. Pausing from writing, the author’s eyes followed the languid course of the cart as it cut through the skies. Even though it was impossible to tell from the distance, the author enjoyed guessing the purpose of the late-night ride. Business seemed unlikely at this hour, though from what the author understood, there was almost always a pony in the newly unearthed Archives, scraping enthusiastically for the latest bit of lost understanding or history.

Perhaps the nightly ride was for pleasure. Perhaps she wasn’t alone in the royal chariot, or as it drifted towards the Archive, perhaps the visit was to that historian was another one of their little escapes. Like everything else in the entire affair, the dance at Hearth’s Warming did not escape the public eye, and soon both Princess and Bookmark found themselves overwhelmed with inquisitive reporters, digging for meaning in the gesture between the two, and that any answer would only fuel more speculation and inquiry. Even though they were no longer being hounded by the stars, it seemed that neither of them were in a hurry to give up their little hideaways, their escapes.

In the times since that the author spoke to Devon, the unicorn had never shown such joy. It was more than just his newfound bonds. It was more than his position allowing his passions to thrive anew. The bliss came from the rare state of having one’s life on course for the first time in decades. The stars sought to take a colt and bend him, mold him into their agent of manipulation and division. Astral bodies chose a child with no sense of understanding to bear the weight of equal parts gift and curse. And they had nearly destroyed him and his world in pursuing that goal without understanding. But the unicorn triumphed and reclaimed not only his fate, but the fate of all those the stars would twist to their ends.

Likewise, Luna reported much of the same. It was as if a titanic weight had been lifted, but a weight that was so subtle and pervasive that its presence was only known by the weightlessness of its absence. Of course, little directly changed in Luna’s life. She still ruled the night with polished regality, still drifted into the dreams of her subjects to offer wisdom and guidance and still shared power with her sister. But, as the author smirked, her routine was not completely unchanged. As if by clockwork, a small gas lantern lit in the Archive’s window, barely perceptible by the poet, a small signal that spoke volumes.

The poet felt the same as well, though far more directly. While for Luna and Devon, freedom from contracts existed as a peripheral sensation, for others the loss of the stars provided relished freedom, but also an unusual emptiness. It was as if a sense was taken away from the poet, not one they would ever wish to return for a moment, but it existed in the ghostly corners of memory. For a pony for him slavery under first another pony, and then the stars, such freedom carried fear. There was no more need to get by on reactions or snap decisions, for the first time in more than a millennium, the poet had a future to plan for.

Breaking away from introspection, the writer shook the compulsion to linger on such thoughts. It was late and work still needed completion. Seizing the quill, the author gazed critically at the scroll. Very close now, and the inkpot was nearly dry.

Two hearts loosed from running.
Two souls freed, yet twinning.
Unbowed by threads of fate spinning,
From one story's end, a new beginning.

Finally, the author set the quill down. Lifting it in an aura of magic, eyes danced over the lines to check them for any last errors. The ink ran poorly in some places, and it certainly was not a perfect work. But, as the author saw the cobalt chariot skim across the sky again, the need for perfection seemed less and less important. All that mattered was a good start, and understanding that perfection did not come from one action. Perfection was made over time, perhaps impossible to achieve, but always a goal.

“If those two could make that kind of thing work, I suppose I can let a few bad lines pass.”

Magic rolled the scroll up and the author relaxed backwards towards the modest cabin. With a huff of breath, the gas light flickered out and darkness swallowed the author in the doorway. With a grateful heart, the writer turned indoors, thankful that such a small domicile could be found on such notice, a gift of appreciation from Canterlot for their actions during the entire star affair. The peace and distance helped immeasurably with her struggles. The damage from a thousand year old decision left its scars, and the isolation allowed for both reflection in peace, and for the harder days to lash out with less ripples. Luna and Celestia’s visits helped, even though their offers of more intensive care were always politely declined.

What the poet needed most of all was time and reflection. Nothing could change the reality that the stars’ voice was forever removed from her. That was an undeniable fact. What was needed now was to understand the knowledge. “How’d ya put it, Dev’s? You should never do something until ya understand it.” Drawing in a deep breath, the poet held that thought close. Plunging into means to fix the cracks in her mind would not help until she could cope unless she understood why the fact was what it was. But there was time.

What did help bring a measure of unexpected peace, was writing. The author never had such patience for it before, but measuring out lines of poetry, matching rhymes and retelling the stories that were fresh to their mind, but new to others helped the author sort jumbled thoughts. Devon encouraged it, felt that it was a way for the author to understand the effects of such a journey. And despite all of the pride and stubborn resolve, the writer could not deny that the poems helped far more than any doctor or spell could at this point, and while they were not perfect, there was plenty of time and it was a fine beginning. Maybe down the line, the poet could branch out, there was a very new world before them now. New magic, new ponies and an Equestria that had moved on a thousand years.

“Just look at me now, I used ta throw trains around and now I write poems,” Gina finally allowed a small laugh escape, involuntary and disjointed as always, but slightly more controlled then they had ever been before. “Dev’s, I ow ya for that one. First I owe ya a kick fer it...and then I owe ya a plate of those beignets. Not sure which one I’ll give ya first.” Lighting her horn, the unicorn winced as the healing cracks still stung with a light spell. “You got yer beginnin’s and I got mine, but you better not be a stranger.” The orange mare paused inside her cabin, taking only long enough to add the tightly rolled scroll to a pile in a saddlebag, and return her quill and ink to a simple cabinet.

“Not a bad start,” she said to the night,talking to herself with only small chuckles. With care to not disturb her horn, Gina pulled herself onto the small couch she found and claimed as a bed, despite nicer offers from royalty and friends alike. Another imperfect starting point that allowed a perfect night’s sleep. “We’ll make more of it in time,” Gina yawned broadly as sleep settled into her mind. “ There’s always ‘nother day fer a new story to begin.”

Fin