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// In the Darkness Where I Seek You - Original 2013 Draft - Incomplete 
// Story: Short Scraps and Explosions 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
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    My Dearest Vinyl,

The evening of the meteor shower, five years ago, when we trotted uphill alongside the happily chatting citizens of Ponyville, with our voices dancing like honeymooners in the soft purple air of descending night, and you had your shades off because I had convinced you that a true experience was to be had in watching the shooting stars with one's natural born vision, so that I could secretly watch as the silver pinstreaks highlighted the magenta sheen of your gorgeous eyes, and yet you never looked at the heavens because you spent the whole magical moment staring at me—and at no other pony—trying ever so smoothly to tell a joke that you could barely remember, as if the only special equine atop that shimmering hill was myself, and it was cosmically important that you find some way to make her laugh, when I was already smiling upon every breath that you had to give, so that each pitch of your chirping voice made me lose all grasp of my fears, doubts, and sighs...

That was the moment when I finally realized that I had fallen in love with you.

Forever yours,
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I woke up screaming this morning. It was dawn, and I sat up—hyperventilating—beneath the shade of a spreading oak tree beside the country road heading west. I couldn't tell if I was moist from the dew or from my own sweat. I watched the world heave and shake around me, feeling the residual mists of a watery dream unraveling from my cloudy mind, leaving nothing but a ghostly ringing in my ears, the one and only ringing.

I could no longer sleep.

So I rolled up my sleeping mat and packed my things, as meager as they've become by now. I've had to sell quite a few items for bits ever since I was mugged while passing through Mexicolt City. Regardless, I've managed to keep myself relatively together since I left the northwest borders of Central Equestria. I still have my cello case and a brown canvas saddlebag full of the barest necessities. They suffice for the time being, but I know that I will have to give them up eventually. How soon remains to be seen; I suspect I will understand more once I have reached the gray walls of Masada.

The highway is very lonely here, but peaceful. It's not like the earth pony provinces that I wrote to you about in my last few letters, Vinyl. I am far from the urban sprawls of Seaddle and the lofty mountain hovels of New Ramsterdam beyond them. Here, northwest of mainland Equestria, the landscape has smoothed out, dipping every now and then to form lakes and ponds buzzing with insects and beautiful water fowl. I find the trek cool and invigorating, a welcome reprieve from the scorching jog that was my experience several weeks ago in Las Alamares. From horizon to horizon, I see nothing but windswept grassy fields, interrupted randomly by a thin patch of trees or the rough, brown signature of a farmstead.

It is so quiet. I've sneezed once or twice, and there was no echo. I suspect if I was to scream, it would sound like a whisper against the winds of this land.

I've filled the time with singing. Yes, I know it sounds rather daft to be serenading the sky when one is but a lonely gray speck upon the spacious bosom of the world, but there is a queer sense of freedom to it. To attempt being a maestro among a phantom audience is simply asking to be a prodigy by sheer habit. I've giggled like a schoolfilly at such whimsical spontaneity. Even now, my throat is dry, and my lungs are still vibrating. My only regret is that it's left me feeling intensely hungry. It's almost like having spent an entire afternoon chatting with you. Oh, how I do miss the days when I could drag you to improvised tea parties. Your snowy cheeks always did burn with the most delicious shade of red.

Truth be told, it hasn't entirely been a lonely sojourn. I've crossed paths with a few ponies on their way southeast from Masada. They were pilgrims, mostly, ceremoniously clad in brown robes that shaded their faces as they smiled and bowed pleasantly to me. They must have been returning home from some divine exodus. I marveled at how bright their expressions were. They were so full of light and enthusiasm.

Blessed Celestia, how I've missed that same sensation, of returning home with the bliss of fulfillment exciting every iota of my being. I suspect it's what a mother feels when she reunites with her foals. I think I'm starting to understand the smile you've bestowed upon me after finishing each of your many arduous tours.

I miss you dearly, Vinyl. I think about you constantly. Even now, as the sun falls after a long day of walking this endless highway, I gaze upon the precipice of darkness, and I think about your smile, your eyes, your mane and your cutie mark—and how it all seems to glow in the unlikeliest of ways, bringing lumiscence to the unlikeliest of places.

You've showed me that darkness could be a thing of beauty and joy, for you have shone the light in the deepest hovels and revealed to me what is left to glisten. Even under the shroud of night, I envision your eyes, your even brighter smile, and I find my path into slumber illuminated like a river of diamonds under moonlight. There is very little that I fear now.

Know this when you receive these letters, dear Vinyl: that what I have seen and what I have done, I have done so with the utmost of confidence and euphoria, and it's all because of you.

It is time to sleep. I have many miles ahead of me tomorrow. I suspect that you'll be in my dreams. Maybe I won't wake up screaming this time. It's a tiny comfort, but I cherish it deeply, just as I cherish you.

Yours truly,
-Octavia













My Dearest Vinyl,

I came upon a crossroads around noontime today. There was a village there, an outpost; of course there was one. How silly of me to think that everything is barren and unpopulated along the entire road to Masada. No, that comes after: west beyond the gray walls.

I visited a tavern. I had just enough bits to buy myself a decent meal that hadn't become stale from days of travel. The prices there were cheap. Many layponies traveled through there along their pilgrimage to the holy city, and I suspect the owners were decent enough equines to not charge ridiculous prices for meals and beds.

Indeed, there were rooms available upstairs. I was sorely tempted to stay the night, but I refused, deciding to press on before sunset. I can't pretend to say what the hurry was. I suppose the fact that I was so close to Masada and its glorious spires was what spurred me forward.

Still, I did stay long enough at the tavern to soak in the atmosphere, to hear ponies tell stories by lanternlight of lands that I had never visited. To my shock, such a list of places has grown smaller for me over these past five years.

I look at my hooves, at my tail hairs, at my reflection, and I do not see grayness, nor do I feel old. I am every bit the same filly who once roamed the streets of Canterlot, struggling to make music that could fill the ears of listeners, so that they might pay me bits to fill the mouths of my dear mother and myself with food.

I feel tired, and yet I feel wholesome, as if my entire life has been a banquet and I am just now clearing my plate for dessert. There is energy to my being, a spring to my step. I think that I am actually fit enough to outrace you in a contest for once, dearest Vinyl.

Anyways, I did force myself to stop listening to the tavern's tales of places, ponies, and principalities. An elder merchant was starting to tell gruesome stories of orcish tribes and troll torture gangs that patrolled the borders of Northern Equestria. I politely made my exit. I know where I am going; gruesome things can wait.

I traveled for a few more hours in blissful silence, but I wouldn't remain alone for the trip. A cluster of farms stretched along the highway, and the road was filled with regular traffic from the local agriculturalists. Many of the ponies marveled at me, for they could tell that I was not quite the usual traveler. Nothing about my appearance suggested that I was the same as the many monks and layponies who traveled that same path for centuries on end.

At another junction of roads, I came upon a small bazaar where they were selling fruit and traveling gear. There, I met the friendliest family imaginable. They gave me a free sampling of grape juice and asked me about my travels. The mother of the family and I fell into a conversation about local folk music. She asked me if I was a traveling minstrel. I lied, telling her that I was heading for Masada to take part in an auction of ancient musical instruments. I kept any conversation about myself to a minimum; I just wanted to hear her voice. The mother's speech had a tone that could put church bells to shame. All the while, she was nursing a young foal with a sandy blonde mane. I was allowed to cradle the infant at one point, and when I touched her nose, she giggled. Her voice sounded almost like yours does when you're squealing with joy over the silliest of things. I wanted to hold the little filly forever.

The sun melted into the flat horizon ahead of me as I parted ways with the locals. In the amber sheen of the dying day, I saw the grasslands dissolving into arid stone. The humidity dipped, and I could taste a rusted taint to the air.

An hour or two before nightfall, I saw the soil growing sparse around me. Exposed bits of iron and copper lay on either side of the highway. I had entered the crest of the Skeletal Plains.

I suspect that the holy city will not be much further.

As for now, I must sleep. Writing by firelight is a luxury. I suspect, for the evenings to come, I will not find much kidling for an easy campfire. I may have to write these letters in the daytime, as much as I detest doing so, for it is in the darkness that I can envision you all the clearer.

I shall carry this smile of mine into slumber.

Sincerely,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

"Skeletal Plains" is such a theatrical name for what amounts to nothing more than a flat plateau of dying grass. As my previous hundred or so letters to you would prove, I've seen many a landscape that would far more deservedly earn such a monicker.

There was that arid valley outside of Stalliongrad, where I explored the labyrithine tombs of the world-renown Feathermane family. Then there was the vast mountain range north of Bovetan, where the minotaur monks of the Daedalutian order assisted me in several long months of intense meditation. I have seen crumbled, sunken temples beyond the Lost Salt Shores of the Marediterranean, where humble Coltsican fisherponies allowed me to pay respects to the long dead civilization of Oatlantis.

It's taken me five long years of research and exploration to understand this, Vinyl, but the world is a flower garden layed upon the fringes of a bottomless grave. I know this, and I no longer shudder or quiver at grim things. These "Skeletal Plains" that surround me—they make me want to dance and sing. It is so bright here, as if a spotlight is always on me, demanding an encore to a symphony I've been playing all my life.

I simply adjust the weight of my many things on my flank and continue trotting forward. The holy city of Masada lays ahead, somewhere beyond the dust and the dirt and the debris of life. You should know this just as well as I do, Vinyl: one's performance is best saved for a spectacular venue.

I intend to get there, and I intend to shine. I look forward to writing you about it; I look forward to simply writing to you. So long as you are in my thoughts, the spotlight never goes away, and I have the energy to sing forever.

With love,
Your Octavia





My Beloved Vinyl,

I found another village along the highway. It's a great deal larger than the one I traveled through the other day. The bazaars here are plentiful, and they have much more food to offer. The prices are steep, though, and I'm a great deal more penniless than I was two entries ago.

I write this because I haven't exited the village—not yet. Something clings me to this place, Vinyl. I suppose there are parts of me still sentimental for civilization, in all of its multiplicitous forms, both joyful and sad.

The day started with an aching hunger. So, to earn bits, I attempted something that I hadn't done since my stay in Seaddle eight months ago. I found a busy street corner, opened my cello case, and performed several of the classic suites from Johay Sebastian Buck. At first, I was mildly successful. Passing ponies deposited bits into my case, making complimentary comments about my mane.

Seriously, they always compliment my mane.

But, as the day wore on, the bits grew more and more thin. I wondered if I had made a poor decision—if I had broken some local statute by giving this impromptu performance. Hardly any ponies smiled at me. A gray cloud appeared to have covered the town.

Feeling dismayed, I gathered my things and resumed my journey along the highway cutting through the village. It was then that the sound of a melancholic violin struck my ears. Did I have competitors here? Was I treading on contested territory?

Alas, the music was absolutely beautiful, but it was also strikingly mournful. The mystery of the tune dissolved as I passed through the town's central park. There was a funeral taking place; most if not all of the villagers were attending. Even a few passing monks had paused on their way to the holy city to pay respects.

I couldn't help but participate as well, if even residually. I had found a spot beside the fence along the edge of what turned out to be a tiny cemetery. Beyond the granite gravestones, I saw a young family gathered around a bearded stallion lying dead-still upon a silken stretcher. Garlands and wreathes adorned his fragile, platinum-coated figure, and a treasured quartet of gold-studded horseshoes lay coiled in his forelimbs. The deceased stallion's loved ones knelt around the body, further bequeathing his wrinkled features with their tears.

An elder spoke to the crowd. He was a minister of the Harmonious Assembly; even far out here, Equestria's largest body of worship is as alive as ever. From the runescribed fabric of the minister's collar, I could tell that he had been stationed in Masada before. Evidently, he had chosen a humble life in this small town, for he was going on in his years and I highly doubted that he'd be making any long journeys beyond the arid lengths of the village's surroundings. I listened from afar as he addressed those who had gathered at the burial, providing words of encouragement, followed with ancient psalms written by the sorcerors of old. He spoke of the eternal cycle of harmony and it's virtuous power—how like a guiding light it is in times of impenetrable darkness.

They were words of comfort, to say the least, sparking hope and encouragement. I barely registered a single sentence, instead choosing to focus on the tonality of the minister's voice, imagining it was some secret chorus to the violinist's melancholic strings along the sandy winds of that place.

You fill me with mirth, my dearest Vinyl. You are my harmony, the rhythm that keeps my heart afloat. Though I would be dishonest to call you a perfectly virtuous pony, I like to think that such is the charm about you that has ensnared me, that has made me fall so deeply, inescapably in love with you. You've shown me that existence need not be completely prim and proper, that nature is inherently unpredictable and—dare I say—necessarily chaotic.

I suppose it's sinful to embrace that idea. I felt like an awkward thorn today, sitting upon the vestiges of a holy funeral. And yet, as the ceremony ended and the mournful villagers filed away under a lonesome trot, I remained there, resting as still as the wind-washed stones that surrounded me, watching as the body was laid to rest. I only exited the premises because an hour or two had passed and even the gravediggers were starting to give me an evil eye.

When my time comes, I can't expect a stone to mark my last place in this world. I can't even say that I rightly deserve it. Living with you has made a sinner out of me. But if that is the case, then I am glad to never become a saint. I suspect a life of utmost righteousness would not make me feel nearly as peaceful as my days with you, chaotic or not.

After all, the dissonant chords of our lives have formed a harmony of their own. I utterly refuse to bury such a notion, and I would shudder to think of you burying these letters after I have dug up so much dirt to confess such a thing to you.

With truest devotion,
-Your Octavia






My dear Vinyl,

It's cold here as night falls over the village, colder than the middle of the desert. I had not expected that. I've spent five years wandering Equestria, and still I am beset by the unexpected. I did not expect to hear violin music when I entered this township. I did not expect to attend a stranger's funeral.

I did not expect to be lying here in this alleyway, with the offensive smell of a tavern's garbage wafting around the nearby corner, with my sleeping mat rolled across this water-stained cobblestone like a homeless cretin's dirtless grave. I've slept in worse places before, Vinyl, and in worst conditions. And yet, I suppose the fact that I am close to Masada—that I am close to reaching my journey's end—is what makes this moment feel so bitterly ironic to me right now. There are so many bountiful discoveries within my grasp; I had hoped to be in better sorts.

Alas, I can't complain. I was born unto streets grimier and lonelier than this. I told you stories about it before, dear Vinyl, but I still feel as though I haven't told you enough. I suppose it's that I never wanted to share it, to be perfectly honest. There was no reason for you to know the smell that I smelled, the bitter stench of poverty, the foul atmosphere through which a filly is baptized into a world of despair and desperation

My mother may have nourished my talents. The Canterlot School for Musical Artists may have given me a home. The opera house may have given me a platform above the filth and wastes of yesteryear.

It was you and only you who saved me. I am here now, I am alive now, and I am smiling now—reunited as I am with the grit and grime of all that is nightmarishly familiar—and still it does not shatter me; it does not dissolve the felicitous winds that hold me aloft.

I did not start living until I met you. I know I have said it before; I have written to you about it on several occasions. Celestia help me, but I cannot stop. It is something that I need more than breathing. It is a happy thought, a rapturous thought, more constant and righteous than my own heartbeat, and even that is dedicated to you.

I hear crickets beyond the falling veil of night. Even in the middle of the Skeletal Plains, even in the crook of a relatively destitute alleyway, they have found as much an excuse to sing as I have, though I carry that wholesome tune silently—and jubilantly—onto the shadowed stage of slumber.

I know that you will be out there somewhere, listening.

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia







Dear Vinyl,

Yet again, I awoke fitfully, although I did not scream this morning. I went to sleep after writing to you last night, and I was in a blissfully peaceful mood. I wish I could say that such was the case now.

For hours, I've been overwhelmed with a biting sense of dread. Even now, as I write this, on the northwest outskirts of this village, I feel as though I've forgotten a matter of utmost importance. The worst feeling in the world is the idea that one is lacking something, something vital, something that could make or break one's destiny. I used to suffer from this anxiety all the time, but that was before I met you.

However, as I am on the apex of this journey, you are not here with me. I have to take care of myself; I must smoothe out the rough edges on my own. Where would I be without the enthusiasm you have bestowed upon me? How lost would I be if I did not have your courage and your tenacity as the foundation of my being?

The biggest fear that's been stabbing me is the possibility of my having lost something from my saddlebag. I've found myself ritualistically checking the contents of both it and my cello case on a regular basis. And—today, just like every other day—I've counted everything in order. I'm missing nothing. My medicine bag is there. My container of oats and bread, my flint and tinder, my map of the northwest territories, my sleeping mat, my bit bag, a blindfold, my toiletries—they're all right where I left them. Most importantly, my scroll—the scroll, the most important item that I've hauled from Ponyville to where I am now—is still with me.

Why do I fret so much? I blame the time that I have spent alone, the days that I've been travelling in solitude, the months without you. You really did land yourself a basketcase, darling Vinyl. I've wondered sometimes what it is about me that won you. Surely it was not my talent nor my elegant manner of dress: all of those things are hopelessly lost to you. You're a mare of simplicity, Vinyl, easy to please yet impossible to change. Perhaps that's why I've leaned on you for so long. You've eradicated my rough edges and helped me discover equilibrium. Being around you, I've felt as though nothing's been missing. So, what then have you seen in me?

I really should get going, instead of simply sitting here on the side of the road, producing this letter. It's only that I can't stop thinking about you, and it's oh-so-terribly easy to lose track of the one true reason for why I began this trip in the first place. I find every tiny destraction a comfort and a curse all at once.

Take this flower, for instance. It's such a delicate thing, and yet it's sprouting out of utter desolation. From a tiny sliver of dirt, sandwiched between the edge of a wooden fence post and inert rock, it has bloomed, as bright and red as the common rose. When it first shimmered to my sight from around the highway's bend, it made me think of your eyes when you take your glasses off in the evening. I know such poetry sickens you, Vinyl, but in consideration of where I am and where I am going, I do sincerely hope you can forgive a modicum of—as you would say—"sap."

It is so dry out here in the Skeletal Plains, so desolate. I bought a canteen of water at the town's edge, and it turns out that such was the wisest thing I've done in days. The desert stretches vastly, mesmerizing my own comprehension. Celestia help me when the sun rises tomorrow, for I do believe I'm ill-prepared.

So much stone; it's a deathly barren plateau on the last vestiges of paradise. I feel as though this darling red thing is the last flower I shall ever see.

With love,
-your Octavia


















Dear Vinyl,

I am a very lucky pony.

I was lucky to have met you. I was lucky to have found us an apartment in Ponyville, complete with a garden and a second floor balcony. I was lucky to have found countless artifacts and tomes across Equestria, pointing me to Masada. I also was lucky to have found the one special scroll back in Princess Twilight Sparkle's former library that I now carry with me.

What's more, I've been lucky to have fallen into the company of such kind, altruistic ponies who are now assisting me in my sojourn. Just hours ago, when the noonday sun rose high in the sky, I began to truly, truly understand the harsh realities of this road to Masada.

One does not suffer under the desert sun here, Vinyl. One bakes. What I first thought would have been a brash exercise soon turned into a torturous lurch. The heat and dryness of the highway suddenly became scorching. Before I realized it, I had emptied my entire canteen of water. There was still two thirds of a ruthlessly hot day to go. For the first time since my ordeal in Mexicolt City, I began to worry over my well-being.

It was then that a group of ponies caught up with me. They were seven in number, and they had a quartet of oxen pulling a large wooden stagecoach. Rather than pass me by like a cluster of apathetic Manehattan equines, they immediately stopped and outright demanded that I climb aboard their vehicle. In my heat-induced nausea, I presumed that they were preparing to rob me. To my joy, they were simply attempting to save my skin. I was practically hauled aboard the stagecoach, upon which they treated me to cool water and a hoof-crank operated fan system.

As I discovered, they were a group of travel agents, riding from afar on a regularly scheduled journey. Oftentimes, entire clusters of ponies travel from mainland Equestria to Masada and back, and these new friends of mine were the experts who were responsible for writing up paperwork and establishing the parameters for such organized pilgrimages. Obviously, they were more than prepared for scaling this arid part of the landscape, and they gave me some warm-hearted chastisement for my rather novice failures in attempting the same thing.

As you can imagine, I was immeasurably thankful for their assistance. I paid them back with the best thing I could offer: music. As it turned out, this was something they greatly enjoyed. Apparently, a living made from traveling with ascetic monks is not exactly conducive to musicality. I gave them the best symphony I could muster, considering that I was in a rickety, traveling vehicle and most of my senses were sapped from the near-dehydration I had endured during the first half of the day.

However, these hosts were not without sensibility. I must have collapsed in fitful slumber at the tail-end of my last performance. I know this because I just woke up minutes ago, discovering my saddlebag and my cello lying neatly in a little corner of the gently swaying coach beside me. These ponies had every opportunity to steal my posessions, and yet they did not.

It's a terrifyingly large and intimidating world out there, Vinyl. And yet, the sheer immensity of it all demands that small circumstances of supreme kindness like this must happen. I wish I could pay these ponies back with more than just cello strings. I suppose my utmost respect—for the time being—will have to do.

It's an odd thing to cover ground while not having to look after one's hooves. I peer out the rear of this stagecoach into open country, watching as the dry desert flows away from me under purple starlight. Everything is so soft and serene here—from the gentle sway of the lanternlight to the whisper-soft snores of my benevolent comrades. It's hard to drink all of this in, knowing where I am headed... where we all are headed.

A holy city gets its title from guarding against unholy things. I pray that nothing happens to my scroll along the rest of the way there. I pray that I will find even more luck when I am inside the gray walls.

I pray that I will find music there—even if I'm the one pony who has to make it—for the symphony that follows me beyond will be the only thing keeping me alive... the only thing besides you, that is.

With devotion
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

I've been thinking about your symphony, the one that you started but never finished. Oh, how surprised I was when you told me that you were actually going to be starting something that did not involve electronic synthesizers or that indescribably garrish "table-of-turning" that you've always been so enthralled with.

Don't get me wrong, darling, I've always acknowledged and been intensely proud of your talent. But a gift that is respected is not necessarily understood. More often than not, when you've exposed me to your latest "masterpiece of the underground house scene," I've been quick to dismiss the majority of it as migraine-inducing bedlam.

To say that I was shocked when you decided to cross over into my medium is an understatement. Months after moving into Ponyville, you told me that you wanted to take up classical composition, and I about collapsed through the lower apartment floor with joyous shock. I recall besieging you with copious amounts of texts: music sheets belonging to the world-renown Marezart, analytical commentaries written on the symphonic feats of Mareice Ravel and the avant-garde works of Ponyderecki.

With immense tact, you politely declined all of those materials, insisting that your first foray into orchestral music be something of "original quality" and "untainted by the masters."

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't hold several reservations. I do not mean anything personal by that, my love, but I would be the first to admit that any attempts I'd make—especially without educational aid—to enter the electronic music scene would end up in absolute failure. And yet, you had the charisma and the guile to jump into the cold waters of symphonic music writing without a floatation device, if you would kindly accept such a gross metaphor.

I pledged to be with you every step of the way. You accepted such generosity at a forelimb's length, eager to make a potential masterpiece on your own. All I could dream up within the sound stage of my head was an inevitable cascade of cacophonous noise. Knowing you, you would summon every comprehensible instrument of bass quality and employ it in the opening salvo of the first ten bars. I would expect nothing less from you than something utterly bombastic and grandiose.

Imagine my surprise when your first feat turned out to be something of tonal excellence and competent subtlety. It began with a quiet prelude, like melodic whispers from the utter depths of silence, then built into something hopeful, inspiring, and heartfelt.  If I had written this as my first symphonic piece, I would have been no less proud than you were, dearest Vinyl.  If I recall, you only had the orchestration’s first two pages written down when you felt the irresistible urge to share it with me. Perhaps you wanted my judgment, and yet all I had to give you was my awe.

I was moved by the somber introduction, by how emotionally provocative your symphony was as it transitioned from the first movement into the skeletal framework of a second. You were building a song of hope, which is why you ultimately caved in, coming to me on hooves and knees to ask for my assistance. I merely chuckled at your awkwardness. It was a quality I had not expected to see in you, and I felt both blessed and humbled to witness it in Ponyville, in our new home, in our precious little sound studio. We were making a new life together; it only stood to reason that we made new music as well.

Needless to say, I still feel intensely flattered every time I think about this project that you had undertaken. Yes, it may have been a novice exercise. Indeed, it may have shown your impulsive qualities and artistic disregard for consequences. Nevertheless, it still fills me with great joy today, for I realize now that it was all simply a matter of you attempting to piece together the parts of me that you had yet to understand.

That's what has made this relationship so joyful. It is always ever a game, an adventure of discovery, a means of redefining oneself through the aid of another virtuoso's eyes.

And your eyes are the most dazzling of all, dearest Vinyl. I wonder if you worship my ears as much as I worship your gaze. I've also wondered if I should take up painting.

With mirth,
-Your Octavia







My Beloved Vinyl,

I have arrived at Masada.

It is a far more epic city than I had ever imagined. The driver of the ox-driven stagecoach gave a shout this morning, and those of us who weren't asleep poked our heads out from the rear of the vehicle to see. At first, I thought I was staring at a gray sandstorm that was sweeping majestically over the desert. As my eyes adjusted to the alabaster shine of the ramparts, I realized that I was indeed gazing at none other than the holy city's walls.

They stretch thirty meters from the arid stone of the earth, easily. And they make noise, such delicious percussion: the echoing sounds of hundreds upon thousands of pony voices bouncing off the granite partitions of the ancient maretropolis. Even for a mare born in the mountainous hold of Canterlot, I daresay I've never witnessed anything quite so impressive.

I became aware of the noise of life all around me. Gazing from the stagecoach, I saw that not only had my humble little highway expanded to a wide gravel estuary, but dozens if not hundreds of wandering ponies had joined the massive flow of traffic channeling into the city. I heard the chatter of families, the murmurs of merchants, and the chants of monks. Everypony has a reason for coming to Masada.

It is not just a place for spiritual enlightenment; it is a social hub, the veritable heart of the whole world's lifestream. Masada is home to all trots of Equestrian life: equine, bovine, minotaur, griffon, canine, and even draconian. Creatures of every coat, feather, and scale flock here. Never have I perceived this more than when I rode upon the crest of it, marveling at the heterogenous fountain of culture flowing about me.

With a heavy heart, and yet a headstrong spirit, I bid adieu to the kind strangers who had carried me from the Skeletal Plains to my penultimate destination. I don't know which they were sadder to see go—myself or my cello. Jumping out of the stagecoach, I landed on surprisingly strong hooves. I had an extra spring in my step, courtesy of a full day and a half's rest in that cool, comforting vehicle.

I can only hope such luck finds me here. So far, it has been exciting, yet trepidatious. The customs at the iron-wrought gates of Masada were far more strict than I had anticipated. The inspection of my belongings was a tad bit too methodical for my tastes. After thirty hoof-biting minutes, I was allowed to pass on through to the main city. I imagine that the local guard are unaccustomed to a mare traveling on hoof with so much baggage. It humors me to think what horrible weapons of diabolical intent they perceive me capable of hiding in my cello case.

At least they did not touch the scroll. If they had confiscated that—or all of these letters to you for that matter—I could very well have lost my mind.

I have gone through an insurmountable number of tribulatoins in order to arrive here, my dearest Vinyl. As you well know from my previous entries, I have spent far too many months, lost too much weight, and endured too many hardships to turn back. I know that there are even worse ordeals to come: trials that will make a strict screening at the gates to a city look like foal's play. I sit here on a throne of empty crates, resting my hooves, basking in the shadow of the high walls as I watch the pony-filled streets shift and shudder past me.

And yet, there is so much darkness ahead. So much great, terrible darkness.

I cannot stress too much. I cannot weigh things so heavily until it is the true time to carry such loads. There is much to prepare for, much to search for, much to find. Right now, I must rest. I shall finish this letter and simply rest.

I feel like leaning back, closing my eyes, and listening to the oceanic echoes all around me. If I meditate and drift in the noise, I'm sure it'll feel as though I'm back in the concert hall.

I'll even pretend that you're in the audience, listening along with me, as you do in my dreams.

Sincerely,
-Octavia





Dear Vinyl,

I do not even know where to begin.

Masada is large. It is unbelievably huge, complex, and elaborate. This city has layers—multi-faceted and brimming with life. There isn't a street, a wooden platform, a staircase, a patio, or a rooftop that isn't occupied in some way with residents, peddlers, visitors, and guards. Every second of every minute of every hour is filled with noise. I don't think my ears have had a single moment of rest since I frist trotted into this spectacular domain.

It is a continuous chorus, brash and cacophonous at first. With further listening—as one's heart adjusts to the bedlam—one starts to register a pattern. The upper levels are lulled by the chanting of monks as they seek to summon the spirits within themselves. The lower streets contain the bickering and bartering of merchants who never sleep. In between it all is the mirth, the laughter, the enchanted romp of day to day life. My ears have made out families singing songs of daily praise, and children giggling as they peer down at foreign visitors from their lofty apartment windows.

It is difficult to find sunshine here. Every street rests at the bottom of a granite chasm, formed by steep, steep walls that climb towards the distant sky with patchwork layers of several generations' worth of varying architecture. Any sliver of daylight is obscured by canvas and leather awnings erected to shade the filing, bustling, stumbling citizens below. I feel as though I've trotted across the entire Equestrian continent to reach this city of light, only for a grand curtain to snuff out all illumination upon my arrival.

I know that there are more fascinating layers to be had. I've only managed to explore the city's southern districts. The streets here are deeper, forged over the last few centuries by ponies with greater expectations for how rapidly this maretropolis would eventually grow.

Once I reach the central and northwest districts—the truly ancient chambers of Masada—it is then that I will see the color that this place is vastly renown for. I most exceedingly hope that whatever I find there will eclipse the smell. Celestia help me, Vinyl, I never wanted my nose to fall off any more than I do now. But I suppose such is the cost of swimming in dense civilization; civilization swims in you.

I've been having a hard time blending in. Though countless weeks of trekking across country has made me look less than affluent—to say the least—the shiny glow of aristocracy still clings to me. I've had over three dozen guards gawking in my direction. Countless mares have thrown envious glances my way. It's not as though I flaunt myself, Vinyl. You've said it yourself: "It's all in the mane, Tavi." You would also tell me how lucky you felt, as if I was such a wonderous "catch." I simply giggled and rolled my eyes, for I found your exuberant flattery to be foalish and cute. Now, the whole situation merely bothers me.

I shudder to think that I need to reach deep within myself, reach back to the trembling, frightened little filly that this pony was before you were fortunate enough to find her. How did I survive for so many miserable months and years in such grimy streets? It couldn't have all been my mother's doing. I must have had an inner strength, some hidden tenacity that kept me from going mad. I trot through these ravines of Masada, and I think I can recognize half of the smells. I am petrified, Octavia. It's taken a great deal of self-control just to calm my hoof long enough to write this to you.

My stroll through the city hasn't been absolutely perilous, though. To my luck, I was able to find a merchant selling robes not that far from where I currently sit. I used my last few bits to acquire this dark brown cloak. You'd like it, Vinyl. You'd say it matches my mane. Right now, it's doing everything to hide it, to hide me, to obscure my form as I drift through the crevices of this place, becoming one with the shadows.

I am not an ascetic monk having arrived here to seek enlightenment, nor am I a tourist or a merchant or a casual laypony of the Harmonious Assembly. I'm more than the common visitor whose desperation has forced her to throw herself upon the streets of Equestria's holiest of holies for bits or beautitudes. My journey has just begun. A hidden horizon waits for me, layered in darkness beyond the stone and grit and smell of this place.

It's been fifteen hours since I first arrived. I'm losing strength, and I need to find a place to stay. Already, I see the white spires of my next destination peeking above the steep walls above me. Nopony will accept me into that place if I look and smell like a common street rat, albeit a graceful one. I have to find a way to recover, to wash up, to rejuvenate myself.

You're an artist, Vinyl. If you were in my position, you would be thinking the same thing: "If a performance has begun to collapse, it's best to start from scratch."

To my most beloved Scratch,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

A word to the wise: when playing cello in the streets of Masada, be sure to think up an epic close to one's act.

It started with the safest song one could imagine. I mounted a pile of crates on a street corner, produced my cello, and performed a slow tempo rendition of Voltrot's "Ode to Spring." I heard a rise of shouts, at first I thought the locals were scoffing at the audacity of a mare such as myself to play music in their midst. I soon realized that they simply wanted a song-switch. My mistake was assuming that the residents of Masada were simple and peacefully minded. I should have known better; they live in the most densely populated city of Equestria. They desire nothing less than something upbeat, swift, even frenetic. Ponies who don't sleep need music that doesn't stop for anything.

So I switched gears, as t'were, and bore right into "Flight of the Parasprites." I earned cheers almost immediately. I earned bits with even greater speed, to such a point that it felt criminal. I then remembered the price of the cloak that I had bought hours before, and I realized that a rapidly burning economy probably meant that local boarding rates were high. So, I played on, and it's not like I had anything at the moment to regret. It was a nice crowd, and I was wearing a good cloak.

Seriously, Vinyl, it's a very nice cloak.

Ten songs later, my forelimbs felt like falling off. It didn't help that I had formed a veritable crown in that part of the bazaar. I had long imagined that a single musician such as myself would be hardly noticeable in a grand, noisy city like Masada. Then again, in the last few months that I have traveled the highways of Equestria like a vagabond, I have easily forgotten that my whole career peaked as the highest rated cellist out of Canterlot. It would seem as though my skill hasn't abandoned me; I wish I could say the same about my memory.

Have I truly become so naive? So humble? I blame you.

Nevertheless, I needed an excuse to bow out. I realized I had overdone myself by starting with "Flight of the Parasprites." I needed a good, final instrumental so that I could earn the necessary ovation against which I could make my exit. In my panic, I felt as though I had used up all of my musical knowledge. I could see guards overlooking the thick currents of ponies, and I figured that it was just seconds before they trudged over to drag me out of the city and cast me into the desert for having devoured too much attention. I had to come up with a solution, all the while fumbling to keep the meter of my penultimate instrumental.

I'm not good at improvising, Vinyl, at least not musically. You of all ponies should know that. If you were there with me at the time, you would have thought of something comically brilliant to have thrown off the crowd, and then surely you would have dragged me off in a flurry of mane hair and giggles, and I would have hidden my embarassed face in the nape your neck, thankful that my mare in shining shades had once again whisked me away from certain public destruction.

It astounds me, then: the ease at which I chose to do what I did. I played your song, Vinyl. I played the opening segment of your symphony, scouring the pages in my head—as I have long memorized them after all these years.

And what did your first audience think? They were mesmerized. Of course they were mesmerized! They were stolen away from their lives, their worries, and their troubles. And as they clapped their hooves, I stole myself from the scene. I didn't have to finish the song; I didn't even have to bow.

It's quite fortunate, I suppose. After all, you never did finish the symphony. Funny how you came to my rescue regardless.

Whatever the case, I finally had enough bits to improve my situation. Night had fallen (although I can hardly tell the difference between daytime and nighttime in these streets). Gazing up past the torches and awnings of the granite chasms, I saw the faint sliver of stars in the desert sky. A piece of Equestria was hovering above, watching over me. In the middle of so much civilization, I felt alone, and yet I couldn't. I was in a separate world, energized with the fragrance of you, something only I could magically smell beneath the muck and mire of reality.

This euphoric glide took me towards an amazingly sparse courtyard. Once there, I managed to breathe and relax myself. To my stupid joy, I found myself gazing straight at the entrance to a humble, well-to-do inn. I stepped through the doors, ecstatic to find that not only was the establishment open, but there were vacant rooms available.

I paid half of my earnings for the day, and a polite young mare showed me to a room on the fourth floor. It's a very tiny flat—with one bed and a single sink to maintain hygiene. But there is a balcony to this room. Blessed Celestia, Vinyl, it has such a view! I can barely concentrate on my writing, for the shine of the moon is upon me, blistering through the curtains and round archway of this most ancient of ancient cities.

I can see the skyline of Masada from here in all its granite glory. The ivory spires of the White Star Library linger to the northeast. In the center of town, the steeples of the Harmonious Assembly Cathedral slice their way across the desert starlight.

Then, beyond the western walls—far past the petrified wood of the ramshackle old district—I see the horizon of pale stone dipping into the gray valley beneath perpetual storm clouds. Lightning shimmers upon the front face of the bulging mists, always advancing and constantly receding simultaneously. It is just as mesmerizing as I had read about it in countless texts both ancient and modern. Absolute horror never looked so beautiful, and I feel my life draining just by glancing upon it with quivering eyes.

So, I choose to look at these sheets instead, at the words that I'm writing to you, and I imagine my gaze bouncing through space and time so that it finds itself reaching your magenta eyes in turn. In a flash, the life within me is rejuvenated. I hear the symphony going on in my head, and I believe—no, I know—that someday it will be finished, for you will be humming it to completion, just as I am starting it right now, deep in my throat, as I close my eyes and lie against this succulent mattress, imagining that it's your soft white forelimbs engulfing me instead.

Sleepier than you think,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

I smell so very good right now. After weeks of trudging through dirt and dust to get here, I am not in the least bit ashamed to say that.

You used to always poke fun at me for my cleanliness, but I knew for a fact that you adored me all the same for it. I'd fall asleep on the couch, exhausted from a long evening of writing song sheets, and I'd awake to you snuggling me, having abandoned the roomy and comfortable bed for the opportunity to nuzzle my mane, inhaling me with each breath. Half of the time, I would just pretend to be asleep, just to see how long the moment would last, and to my rapture it would consume half the night.

Oh dear, I'm getting off track again. Just what should I make this particular letter about?

Ah yes—I awoke in my hotel room hours ago, and I decided that it was high time that I visit the alabaster spires of the White Star Library. While most of the streets of Masada experience their fair share of filth and destitution, the same cannot be said for many of the long-established monuments to culture that persist in this ancient urbanscape. I knew that if I was to enter the very atrium of that vast archive, then I needed to make myself presentable—to the nose as much as to the eye.

This was not something I regretted in the least. As it so happens, I had several spare bits in my purse from the previous day's music performance, and I knew just where to use them.

The Eastern Baths of Masada are world-renown for their fragrances and luxury. Though I could not afford the most extravagant treatment, I was able to settle for a very thorough rinse, followed by a lavender bath. There were three servants upon my arrival to assist me on hoof and knee. After an hour of blissful soaking, that number had nearly tripled. I take it that not many mares in this part of the world have seen a pony with a mane as long nor as full as mine. I suppose I've always taken it for granted. After all, you've never been a fan of growing your mane long. You've always kept it short, spiked, and simple—which is just how I love it on you.

Would you believe me if I told you that they thought I was some royal dignitary? Celestia help these young mares if they ever stumble upon a fashionable celebrity such as Sapphire Shores or Duchess Rarity of Trottingham; they're likely to think she's a goddess incarnate, considering how awestruck they were over my well-to-do mane.

Oh, I do hope I haven't been drawing too much attention to myself. That is the last thing that I need right now. I guess I shouldn't hold too much weight in the matter. After all, considering the road ahead, my mane is the least of my worries.

I stand now outside the granite steps leading up to the White Star Library. My stars, Vinyl. The building is far larger than those measely postcards make it out to be. I feel as if a giant mountain of granite is leaning over to devour me whole. The place is so grand, that several balconies shadowed by the epic marble columns serve as pockets for local wooden bazaars selling discount books and pamphlets. I see many young souls here: students and teachers trotting back and forth, chattering over science, philosophy, and religion. The very air hums with the spirit of learning and the richness of knowledge. Princess Twilight Sparkle would do well to visit this haven of literature; she's liable to make Masada the capital of Northwest Equestria, like it once was back in the days before the Lunar Turning.

Now I can observe several finely-dressed stallions and mares scaling the steep, marble steps to the library entrance. The silken robes they're wearing must cost more than our apartment: ten times over, as a matter of fact. I suddenly wonder if I'm appropriately fitted to enter this lofty domain. Surely, the ponies inside will take an awful lot more to impress than a bunch of young, easily enthused maidservants at a bath.

I feel the shape of the scroll in my saddlebag. I've come too far just to fall for some woesome spirit of reluctance.

Wish me good fortune,
-Octavia














Dearest Vinyl,

It is oh so heavenly in here. The White Star Library is a labyrinthe that I would happily get lost in. The music section alone is twenty rows in length, and three floors in height. I have just now seen tomes written on orchestral styles that I had never even heard of before. There is music stored away here that is way older than most of civlization, and infinitely times as precious.

I fear that I am getting lost, too lost. It's an easy thing to do in this place.

I know you've never been one for libraries, Vinyl, but there is simply no way to properly explain the absolute immensity of White Star. The archives are like sepulchers: long and winding catacombs of petrified information. I seriously doubt there are enough souls in Equestria to peruse every single shelf of books within this place at once. There is more text between the bindings of these tomes for ten alicorn lifespans of reading, much less ten million mortals' time. This is the best place to hide something, I have no doubt of it at this point.

It must be obvious by now that I was easily allowed to roam the vast, lantern-lit interior of this place. Though White Star Library is frequented by several ponies of lofty aristocracy, the librarians weren't nearly as staunchy as I had first envisioned him. Perhaps, I could very well have entered this place as soon as I arrived in Masada—with my body so covered in the soot and dust of the outside world.

Alright, perhaps I am exagerrating a bit on that last part. It's just that I am simply overwhelmed with excitement for being here. I suppose it does cloud my judgment to some degree.

I used to attend a rather imposing library at Canterlot University. Such an archive is utterly dwarfed by the likes of White Star, of course, but it is still an immensely impressive facility, nonetheless. There's something remarkably fascinating—though oftentimes eerie—about being lost in a place of information so vast, with the sight of everypony else obscured by the forested wall of shelves, shelves, and more shelves. The smell of books permeates every pocket of air, and each room is so quiet that you can hear your eyelashes creating a tiny breeze every time that you blink.

If the library of Canterlot University felt like being at the bottom of a well, then White Star is a literal abyss. Gazing upon rows and rows of dusty brown books, I can't help but feel as though this is where knowledge comes to die. It is up to ponies like us—charismatic pilgrims in search of answers—to resurrect that which has been abandoned by time, neglect, and fear.

I have the scroll from Princess Twilight Sparkle's former study hall in my possession. Fear is the last thing that is stopping me.

Before I make my first move—before I attempt uncovering that which has been hidden for eons—I must meditate. That's why I am sitting here, Vinyl. That's why I am writing to you. You have been and shall continue to be my center, my focus, the beat upon which I throw my strings, turning sound into poetry.

I will need my muse now, more desperately than ever, because the music that has been left for me to uncover is not asking to be found. And I'm not quite sure if I'm gifted enough to fill in the gaps left after it.

At least I'm in the absolute best place in all of Equestria to study.

With great enthusiasm,
-Your beloved Octavia











Dearest Vinyl,

Five years. For five years, I have been studying rigorously, scouring the lengths and breadths of Equestria, searching with religious zeal for the answer to one of this kingdom's most indelible mysteries: "What ever happened to Starswirl the Bearded?"

I shudder to write it, blessed Vinyl, but I do believe that I am on the crest of finding the answer. I may very well be the first—if not the only—soul in over three thousand years to have discovered the truth.

The key to it all is this scroll, this one roll of parchment that I have carried with me all the way from Ponyville. It's rather queer and ironic, really, that after months and years of searching the landscape, from Canterlot to Whinniepeg to Trottingham and back, that the information gathered would direct me back to our patron township. Once there, I spent hours and days holed up in the former home of our beloved Princess Twilight Sparkle. There, deep in the basement of the Ponyville public library, nestled in between crumbling, petrified tomes almost lost to time and neglect, I found the scroll, hoofwritten in priceless moondust, the last manifested document of Jules Feathermane, the one and only apprentice to Starswirl the Bearded.

Feathermane's place in history is a tiny one, forever overshadowed by his mentor, and that is what has made the acquisition of this scroll so damnably difficult. Many ponies don't even know that he wrote anything beyond the biography of the most famous sorceror who has ever lived. The fact of the matter is, Starswirl's written biography had a final chapter—an appendix, as t'were—and it was lost to public knowledge because it was lost to the entire world, until now.

Upon first glance, it makes absolute sense why Feathermane would have chosen to exclude this written material from the biography he had so delicately put together. The words contained on this sheet are a rambling mess, woeful and melancholic, metaphorically indicative of the ill-fated Starswirl in his last few days of madness left on this earth.

It's long been rumored that Starswirl went insane just months before he vanished. Nopony knows this truth better than Feathermane. The worried apprentice was here to speak with Starswirl—right here in Masada—three thousand long years ago. He recounts having seen Starswirl trot into the city, from the desolate wastes west of the gray ramparts, carrying with him a leather-bound book that glowed at night. Astonishingly, Starswirl had gone blind, his eyes having turned as milky-white as the petrified stone over which he trotted. His beard was full of dust and ash, and there were white moths living in the whiskery fibers. When he spoke, it was of nightmarish things, of nameless horrors that writhed in the darkness that had clouded his mind. Starswirl hugged the book that was with him constantly to his chest. He called it the "Tome of Ending," and the ponies who saw it would later claim that the book's spine was made of a single, pale shard that filled all of them with nausea upon making eye contact.

Everypony wanted to lock Starswirl away, as if sequestering him in some lonesome bedchamber might exorcize him of the frenetic visions surging through his skull and leaping out of his tongue in the form of frenetic poetry. It was Feathermane who broke through the crowd and embraced his master, taking him to his very home in the aristocratic district of upper Masada, attempting in vain to nurse the aged unicorn back to health.

There was no "curing" Starswirl. His fate had been sealed by something he had seen from beyond the northwestern wasteland. And yet, Feathermane had the intuition—and the faith—to see through the madness that was encumbering his mentor. He realized that there was truth in Starswirl's ramblings, a truth that nopony else upon this living plane had the decency to comprehend. For days, Feathermane sat at Starswirl's side, writing down the chaotic words that the aged unicorn had to bestow the living, preserving the rambling speech in enchanted moondust so that it could better stand the test of time.

But try as he might to maintain the integrity of Starswirl's knowledge, he could not make the worried and confused populace of Masada understand it. One day, Feathermane guided Starswirl—old, decrepit, and limping—onto the hilltop that would later become the site for the Harmonious Cathedral today. From there, Starswirl tightly gripped the enigmatic "Tome of Ending" and proceeded to speak to the crowd, conveying in earnest all of the concerns and fears that had followed him upon his return from the wasteland.

He spoke of the "desecration of the abyss," of the "corruption of the eternal prison," of an endless spiral of pain and suffering, consuming the very "marrow of life" from the inside out, eternally selfish and ravenous, hungering for the unused vestiges of harmonic spirits. He claimed that the only thing that brought him back was the binding of the tome—the shimmering book in his grasp—an infernal construction that had taken the sight from his eyes and the joy from his heart.

And yet, everypony scoffed at him. They angrily confronted Feathermane, accusing him of humoring an old stallion's wretched dementia. Feathermane defended Starswirl's speech with vigor, attempting to convince the townsfolk of Masada that the "greatest discovery of all time" had been given to them, that immortal insight was to be found in the Tome of Ending, and yet nopony had the wisdom and werewithawal to digest it.

The resulting argument almost turned into a riot. The holiest city in Equestria boiled over with rage and confusion. And there, in the midst of it all, Starswirl the Bearded, the blind and infirmed prophet of ancient Equestria, slipped away from everypony's sight. He virtually disappeared, along with his mysterious book, as if dissolving in a wave of magic.

In my worldly sojourn, visiting numerous civilizations stretched across the furthest corners of the Equestrian continent, I have stumbled upon multiple legends circulating around Starswirl's fateful departure. Some cultures say that he flew off into the clouds and became one with the sky. Others say that he shaved off his bushy facial hair and—in a fit of insanity—threw himself over the western ramparts. There's even an entire religion based on the idea that Starswirl exploded into a million spritely pieces and absorbed himself into the souls of ponies surrounding him, so that later generations would be bequeathed his undying intellect.

But the most common consensus, the predominating belief that persists in every province to this very day, stems from a young colt's account. A little foal was sitting outside the western wall of Masada, drawing symbols in the dirt, when—supposedly—an elder stallion with white eyes and a full gray beard trotted up to him. He asked the colt which way was west, and the young one aimed him in the appropriate direction and told the stallion to trot forward. Starswirl thanked the foal and departed, but not without first depositing a peculiar leather book into the colt's possession. He also took the foal's wooden stick and drew something in the sand just before he left.

Just what illustration could a blind sorceror have left behind? When Feathermane came upon the scene along with his fellow disciples, he allegedly saw what would be described as a geometrical series of five rotating chambers, arranged like the cross-section of a nautilus shell, growing and shrinking at the same time in paradoxical fashion, as if drilling into a dimension far beyond this plane.

It was in a hot, desert wind that the unearthly illustration left this world, and Jules Feathermane—distraught at his mentor's absence—had no other choice but to procure the Tome of Ending and store it somewhere safe from the fragile minds of ancient Equestria, for the realm of the living was not yet ready to grasp the knowledge that Starswirl had to impart.

For the rest of his life, Feathermane lived as a hermit. Many ponies questioned him about the last days of Starswirl's existence. Furthermore, they asked him what he did with the Tome of Ending, the mysteriously glowing book that Starswirl—the mad sorceror—was holding as he gave his final, erratically structured speech to the unwitting souls of Masada.

To his dying day, Feathermane never once shared the contents of the Tome of Ending. It has long been believed that he read the leathery artifact, and—as irony would have it—he too died while afflicted with blindness. His last days were lived out in solitude; he rarely spoke to anypony. When it was Feathermane's time to pass on, he melancholically confessed that he had hidden the Tome somewhere, and the secrets that Starswirl had imparted along with it. Supposedly, there was a note somewhere, a piece of parchment where Starswirl's last known words were preserved in moondust, and it was upon this same legend that Feathermane relayed the location of the Tome of Ending—where he had hidden it.

Dearest Vinyl, I now have that legend. The three thousand year old words of Starswirl are in my grasp, glittering in silver lunar glory, resonating with ancient purpose. Somewhere in this place, within the walls of the White Star Library, is the hidden chamber where the Tome of Ending lies, waiting to be read by a pony who searches, a pony who is willing to know and understand what exists beyond the veil of darkness, a pony with nothing to lose and everything to gain, a pony such as myself.

I have read the words on the scroll—the paragraphs of winding and meandering speech—over and over again since my studies brought me to finding it in Ponyville. I am not yet capable of understanding the text's meaning, but I suppose that I am not meant to. It is the Tome that I need more than anything, especially if I am to finish this journey I've been on for over five years. It is a journey that once consumed the last vestiges of Starswirl's sanity. There is no telling what it will do to my spirit, but what's at stake is far too much for me to surrender to fear.

There is one bit of text that I do understand. It is repeated constantly at the top of the sheet, like a header that was forever meant to be translated ever since it was first etched there in silver font three thousand years ago.

It states: "Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me." If I didn't know better, I'd say that Feathermane's scroll is instructing me to find a particular spot in this very library.

Wish me courage, Vinyl. I think I know exactly where I need to go.
-Octavia






















Dearest Vinyl,

Yes, I do believe this is it.

I cannot write for long, but I needed to put something down. I needed to mark this occasion, just in case—perhaps—this indeed is a monumentous occasion in history.

I stand now in the western wing of the White Star Library. Here, on the fifth floor and between two stained glass windows brimming with dust—is a peculiar wall where no bookshelf rests. On either side of the windows are cases lined with volumes containing four-thousand year old collections of folk songs, and—like most things that stand the test of time—a great deal of them are of mournful quality, solemn musical motifs that have provided material for countless funerals over the last four millennia of Equestrian culture.

"Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me."

I think I have found the doorway. All it needs is the key.

There is a spot of discoloration here, marking the wall at the height that a full-grown stallion would have been, considering the estimated height of adult ponies around three thousand years ago. When I hold up Feathermane's scroll, I find that the dimensions of it fit the rectangular patch of discoloration perfectly.

I think I know what happens next; I can only hope that what waits for me has been worth the trip. I am leaving my saddlebag, cello case, and letters beneath a table two rows away from the windows, hidden from view. There are no other ponies with me in this wing of the library, and that is a good thing. If what my studies have taught me is true, then what I'm going to need now is courage... and a blindfold.

If I write another letter, then it shall mean that I was successful.

Ever faithful,
-Octavia















My beloved Vinyl,

Three thousand and five hundred years ago, it was Sir Redhoof Moontrot of Whinniepeg who devised "shadow sheets," the means by which blind ponies both ancient and modern have been able to read. Through a series of raised lines in various, alternating patterns, equines devoid of sight can enjoy the same literature as those still blessed with the ability to see the words on paper. As I studied for years in order to track down the steps of both Starswirl and Feathermane—ponies who were renown for their wisdom as well as their blindness—I took it upon myself to learn the mechanics of shadow sheet writing inside and out.

Little did I know that it was the best decision I could ever have possibly made.

There is a reason for these letters that I have dutifully written to you, dear Vinyl. When the time comes, I want you to know what I have done with my life, why I have sacrificed so many years and months with this lonesome journey. At the same time, I've felt that a pony such as myself—a soul who's embarking upon the unthinkable—would benefit from keeping a journal of sorts, and as I terribly dislike the idea of rambling to myself like a mindless foal, it fills me with far greater joy and fulfillment to instead relate my experiences to you. After all, you of all ponies deserve to know the truth. My search is your gain; I express this with utmost confidence and adoration.

That said, I need you to take the following account in stride. No, I am not making up the following events, and I will greatly require your confidence and faith if I am to adequately explain the nature of my discovery.

It goes without saying that the nature of my trek weighs heavily upon my spirit, and with each progressive step I take, my excitement is becoming more and more eclipsed by an unbearable amount of dread. I need to know that you are with me on this, dearest Vinyl. I need to know that—even if I were to succumb to the same madness and blind sorrow that consumed Starswirl and Feathermane—I'll at least have you to carry on the truth, my love. And furthermore, if my toils prove as fruitful as I hope, the knowledge bequeathed you will no longer be a curse, but a blessing.

With faith,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

Yesterday, when I approached the western wall of the funeral hymns section within the White Star Library of Masada, I knew that I was about to make a firm hoofstep in the sands of history. Little did I know that such a hoofstep would become a fitful plunge.

I had in my possession the scroll of Feathermane, and atop the sheet's header, the same words spoke to me in glittering moondust: "Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me."

As you well know, Vinyl, I am not blind. However, Feathermane and Starswirl most certainly were when they died, so it stands to reason that they would communicate with ponies well-acquainted with darkness. In that vein, I had with me a thick blindfold that I had carried along the highway to Masada. For months, I had doubted whether or not I would have a need for it. Yesterday, that lack of faith would be put to the test.

I realized that I was onto something as soon as I put the "key" in place. Do you recall the discoloration that I mentioned two letters ago? The rectangular splotch against the western wall between the two windows? Well, I unrolled Feathermane's scroll and placed it against the wall so that it lined up perfectly with the discolored area.

When the parchment adhesed in place, I was only residually surprised. Equestrian artifacts are known to retain an element of magical enchantment over the course of several millennia, and this scroll belonged to none other than Feathermane, the apprentice to the most powerful sorceror in history.

What I did not expect was a sight that made me dizzy just for looking at it. No sooner had I placed Feathermane's scroll up against the wall when a seam formed down along the middle of it. Squinting, I leaned up towards the sheet, fearful that the ancient parchment had somehow ripped in half following my application. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the seam was not a tear. As a matter of fact, the sheet seemed twice as thick than when I first applied it to the wall.

Immeasurably curious, I reached a hoof up and pulled at the seam. To my astonishment, the parchment unfolded, stretching out from the center with a pair of flaps so that it was now doubled in width. I was overwhelmed with nauseating dizziness, but that didn't stop me from gazing at the magically appearing pages-within-pages.

What was once a simple parchment, enscribed with the recorded words of Starswirl in moondust, had now become a complex missive covered in various lines, etched in rhythmic patterns. I instantly recognized the writing as that of "shadow sheets," literature written for the blind, as I had explained to you in the previous entry.

As elated as I was confused, I scoured the fresh archives of my memory and closed my eyes, reaching a hoof to the top left of the freshly exposed paper. Utilizing information that I had gathered over the past five years of study, I interpreted the words that had appeared in such rapid hash marks before me. My sensitive hoof translated each letter until an eerie phrase appeared, a bizarre mutation of something innately familiar: "Through the rising darkness and between the wailing hymns must you blindly enter."

I felt the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, for this very same line was repeated constantly all across the left side of the sheet. I stumbled when I tried "reading" the right edge of the parchment with my bare hoof, for the text that came to my mind appeared garbled and innocuous. It was then that I realized that the hash marks had been imparted in a mirror reflection to the "shadow sheets" syntax on the left. The phrases on the left side were quite literally being repeated in direct reversal on the right, and just as repetitiously.

Curious, I opened my eyes to gaze upon this phenomenon. In a dizzying lurch, I recovered in time to see that yet another seam had formed, this time in the shape of a cross, splitting the parchment exactly where the hash marks originally mirrored each other. I reached forth and unfolded the sheets again. The scroll quadrupled in size this time, occupying a good chunk of the western wall between the windows. I saw more and more hashmarks—again repeating.

When I closed my eyes and ran my hoof across the patterns, the "shadow sheets" darkly imparted: "Into the rising darkness and under the cadence of the wailing hymns of the forever ending must you blindly enter with good faith." Once more, these words were mirrored on the right side. I discovered that even with my eyes closed, the same dizziness that overwhelmed me upon gazing at the sheets was plaguing me as I "read" the dialogue with one hoof. On a whim, I stretched both of my forelimbs out and felt along the raised marks on either side of the parchment simultaneously. To my surprise, there was suddenly no dizziness to be had, as if there was some sort of purposed mechanism to the gesture.

I never thought my ambidexterous gifts would assist me in anything other than cello playing or music writing. Alas, I found myself in the absolute best time and place to apply such talents. I also knew that there was no point in relying on my eyesight for what would come next. Suddenly, the purpose of my blindfold was perfectly clear.

I looked around that wing of the Star Library one last time, making sure nopony was watching me. Then, with a brave breath, I donned the mask over my eyes. Blind as a bat, I approached the sheet, feeling along the center. Sure enough, another seam had form—and another and another and yet another. I pulled at the edges, unfolding the parchment a third, fourth, and even a fifth time. I had to shuffle sideways now in the act of spreading the ridiculously large manuscript across the stone wall. It was obvious to me by now that the once-tiny scroll was currently occupying the entire surface in between the windows. With a firm breath, I stood upon the epicenter, and I stretched both of my forelimbs as far to my sides as I could, as if I was embracing the setting sun from beyond the edge of the Library.

How like a mad, blind pony, I thought.

Then, with equal madness, I ran my hooves across the sheets—from the left to the right and from the right to the left—so that my forelimbs were gradually gliding towards each other, slowly, bestowing my aching brain with flowing bits of information, and all of it immensely unsettling. The phrase that was once as simple as a singular lyric had mutated into a bizarre stanza:

"Hopelessly into the encompassing inner darkness of chaos and under the discordant cadence of the wailing hymns of the disharmonious who are forever ending without peace or contentment within the blight of time's coldest enemies must you of mortal anchorage blindly pierce the veil of oblivion with courage and good faith for the glittering spark beyond..."

I was barely registering the words, for not only were they meandering ceaselessly into eternity, but my body was being carried along with them, as if my weight was shifting. I almost lost all concentration, for I realized that I was leaning forward. The wall before me was no longer solid, but rather it was bent, angling progressively towards some distant horizon. My hooves were moving diagonally now, from thirty to forty-five to sixy degrees in variance. As a matter of fact, it was no longer a wall. If anything, I was now exploring a niche, and it was sucking me in deeper, like a flower swallowing a honeybee. All the while, the words kept on gliding past me, so that I imagined that I was being encompassed by the very scroll itself.

Feathermane's shadow sheets were devouring me, dragging me deeper and deeper into some frightening abyss. I did not dare stop "reading," for fear that the very moment I removed my hooves from the raised hash marks, the dizziness would stab me and leave me here to rot—a corpse lost forever in the moondust parchment, strung pathetically between the windows of the White Star Library's western wall.

"Hopelessly and eternally into the encompassing inner darkness of heartless chaos and under the timeless discordant cadence of the wailing hymns of the tragically disharmonious who are forever mindlessly ending without peace or contentment or camraderie within the impenetrable blight of time's coldest enemies must you of flimsy mortal anchorage blindly and fatefully shatter your way through the veil of oblivion with boundless courage and good faith for the elusive glittering array of sparks that dwell beyond..."

In that blindest of blind sojourns, I felt a throbbing in my ear. I didn't realize it at first, but I was hearing something. It sounded horrifically like the ringing noise that greets me in the mornings when I wake screaming from a fitful dream. It sounded like the lonesome hiss of a desert wind as I trot along the highway, thinking and daydreaming about you.

There, in my fitful stumble through words and parchment, it sounded like a hundred billion screams, and all of them mournful—mourning me, for in making the greatest discovery of our time, I was about to make the most horrible discovery of all time, and they knew it, for they were watching me.

It was around that moment that the hash marks ended:

"...and good faith for the elusive glittering array of sparks that dwell beyond the melody of existence."

There were no words left. The walls of parchment vanished, and I found my hooves lunging forward, and my own body as well, shrieking. As I did so, something flew into my chest—something weighted and leathery. Without thinking, I clutched it to myself, hugging it like a newborn infant. Seconds later, I landed on solid ground, feeling flakes of paper fluttering all around me.

Hyperventilating, I flung the blindfold off my skull. I was on the floor of the White Star Libary's west wing, facing east, even though I had been moving forward the entire time. Sitting up, I turned around and glanced at the wall. The stained glass windows were bathed red from the setting sun over the desolate stone plains beyond Masada. I thought only a few minutes had passed, and yet suddenly it was as though I had been gone for hours. And the parchment: it had dissolved, shattered like a broken sheet of glass. Shreds of the ancient scroll littered the floor all around me; even the moondust words had scattered as if blown away by an invisible wind.

And the weight that was in my grasp? I looked at it, and my breath left me, for I had in my hooves a book bound in leather with a pale-white shard for a spine. And, as the sunlight dimmed beyond the windows, the object appeared to glow in my grasp.

I have it, Vinyl. I actually have it in my grasp. For the first time in thousands of years, the Tome of Ending has returned to Equestria.

Breathless,
-Your Octavia











Beloved Vinyl,

The book lies in front of me, cold and silent like a gravestone, and yet I can't bring myself to read it. I sit here on the cot of my lonely room within the Masada inn, staring at where it's perched before the open balcony. A breath of desert wind blows against the curtains. I see bands of pale light scattering through the dust from the leather tome's cadaverous spine.

Ponies watched me as I lurched out of the White Star Library, hurried and hunched over with the book hidden in my cloaked grasp. If they thought that I was stealing something out of the archives, they did not bother to search me. A part of me thinks that something drew them away, an aura both cold and chilling, something like the nausea that currently coats my stomach upon so much as staring in the Tome's direction.

Night has fallen. I've been sitting here for hours. I can't remember the last time I ate or slept. What's the use in anything like that anyways? Flesh is flesh, but flesh isn't forever. At some point or another, what's anchored to the world dissolves, like Starswirl's and Feathermane's sanity. After that, what is left? Is it something that can transcend the cold clutches of time's decay? Is it something that is capable of sobbing?

I felt the pages, Vinyl. For a brief moment—as I trotted the avenue that took me from one district to another—a gust of wind blew the Tome of Ending open, and my hoof brushed against the cold sheets of paper in my desperate attempt to close the leather bindings back shut. I didn't look upon it at the time, but what I touched felt a great deal like dried leaves of flesh.

And I think so because that's exactly what they are: petrified grafts of pony skin. The bindings, on the other hoof, are the substance of scales: possibly dragon flesh. And the white shard that forms the book's spine—do I even wish to know what it is? Do I truly desire to ascertain the reason for its magical luminescence after all these thousands of years?

Shivers overwhelm me. It is difficult for me to write, and yet if I don't, I know I will just plunge forward—with deep breaths and bright eyes—submerging myself in the pages of this thing that I have just grabbed from the detestable ether. Just thinking about it distresses me, mostly because I know that I will give into the temptation soon. So I pass the time here, nestled in this cot, clutching the brown folds of the cloak around me.

It really is a good cloak.

When I began my journey from Ponyville—a long and arduous pilgrimage that would eventually bring me here five years later to this point of uncertainty—it was a trek that I had begun with great peril, anxiety, and desperation. There were times in my loneliness and aggravation where I felt as though I would do anything, say anything, or even give anything to take what I most desired, what I most ardently sought after.

Could this be what consumed Starswirl, that carved the substance from his mind and the courage from his heart, so that all that remained was a porous substitute for a tenacious equine spirit? How did he ever get his hooves on something as grim as this Tome, something made out of butchery and madness? After all, Starswirl was a pony of peace, prosperity, and the tranquil quest for knowledge. Was something that he discovered beyond the desolation to the west the reason for his downfall? Was something between the fleshy sheets of that tome the explanation for why he abandoned Equestrian civilization so willingly?

When does knowledge become a bane unto itself? At what point does information will itself into unknowing, so that life relies on unspeakable horrors such as this book to impart concrete messages through the pliable meat of ages?

I've come so far, Vinyl. I've given into fear so easily. I don't think it's cowardice, but rather, I feel as though fear is the only thing I have left, the final shred of sanity I possess. It is the last pertinent part of Starswirl that the stallion gave up, that made him lift this relic of death before the ancient citizens of Masada, boldly proclaiming it to be the key to something unseen.

But what is unseen, exactly? What lies within the darkness beyond the wastes? Was it something that Equestria has forgotten? Was it something that we are all destined to wake up to?

Know this, Vinyl: that whatever happens to me, the pony that you have always loved will still be left dwelling inside her, for that is the part of the mare that has spurred her so far towards the edge of this abyss, hoping to make music where there is nothing but thunder. The crest of darkness lingers beyond the spires of Masada to the west. Purple starlight casts a spotlight on the tome. I feel my heart pulsing. If nothing else, I am an artist who knows when it's her time to perform.

Maybe if I pretend as though I am reading what I find to you, I will have the strength to survive until morning.

Yours forever,
-Octavia











My Dear Vinyl,

When we first moved in together at Ponyville, I was not at peace. You knew this, but you were patient with me. Slowly—like the rising tide at the fall of evening—your joy and contentment washed up all around me, so that I had no choice but to bask in you, to share my breaths with you, to allow you full access to my laughter and tears.

I took me an interminable amount of time to open up. And when I did, it was like floodgates bursting from my heart, and you were there to collect every drop, to make a game out of the complex tributaries of my life, so that the two of us felt like foals playing and laughing by the riverbank together.

Everything in my life has been joyous; everything has been rapturous and liberating. It is all because of you.

You had surprised me, Vinyl. You had amazed me with the degree of stoicism with which you calmly digested the recollections I had to bestow you: the tale of my life. You did not gasp in shock when I told you that I wasn't always rich, that—like some amazing faerie tale story—I had been born into poverty and destitution in the lower streets of Canterlot. Only, there was very little whimsy to be had in my "faerie tail life," and it pained me to tell you, for fear that you would melt into a blobbering mess of sympathetic pretense, attempting to alleviate the symptoms of my anguish and not the cause.

No, you were patient—ever so angelically quiet and contemplative—as I told you about my mother, about the illness in her lungs that had consumed her over the years, about the relentless zeal with which she had fought to make my musical talents known to the world, in spite of our impoverished living conditions in the absence of my neglectful father. You did not cry—like I cried—eventually relating the agonizing details of how my mother rotted away in bed while I, thanks to her, landed an opportunity to perform before dukes and duchesses in the upper districts of Canterlot.

Soon, the story had become a poem, something that I was reciting to myself, as if it was some shadowy serenade. There was no music to be had; the only instrument was my heart. I was simply being honest, being lucid, being true—and you reflected it with the same deadpan that I had been forced to adopt all my life.

And it was then that I realized that my whole existence had been the opposite of the special thing you were granting me, the moment that we were having. My entire life had been a performance, a farce, a play put on for an invisible audience that I had always projected around me, for to allow the true light of the world to dissolve those phantom faces would only bring me back to one fateful evening in my youth, when my ears rang from a haunting rush of blood to the skull, as I sobbed and clutched my mother's face in bed towards mine, begging for the color to return to her jaundice-covered eyes, begging for fate to stop stealing her away from me, as if she may impossibly slip back uphill into the world of the living, and I might finally have somepony to thank for hurling me above the social pit that had consumed her.

They pulled me away—this child prodigy with the gift for cello playing—and these foster musicians flaunted me upon opera stages and in the first chairs of orchestras and at a hundred Galas that propelled me into adulthood... and eventually musical superstardom. All the while, I played with great zeal, employing the lessons taught to me by a ghost, and I never smiled—for she never smiled. My mother merely slipped away, gliding off on pale bedsheets like a stone sliding down a hill of ice, and all of the weight and reality of my anguish had cascaded with her.

And when the truth of all of this came out of me, with you as my witness, and my mouth closed before the pitiable breath could return to my lungs, what came next was a sob, for I realized that I had always been a slave to the performance, that there was no real pony beneath it all, that in her desperation to save me my mother had erected a facade, something that had always kept her strong in the lasting days that tore her lungs to bits but was only turning my life into a grand stageplay without the courage to end.

And there was a reward, Vinyl. There was a reward for your patience and mine. You reached across the grand oceanic space my drowning sobs had made and you embraced me. You held me. You gave me a new weight, a new anchor, so that I could find the ground, and it was there with you, warmed by you, in love with you. You told me there—with your kisses and your nuzzles of adoration—that it was not too late for my life to begin. You told me that—just as my mother's life had so quietly ended—so softly could Octavia be born, and she would not be alone.

"We will build you together," you had said.

I was so scared, and yet so excited. I never knew such promise. All I had known until I met you was schedules, music tours, and symphonies to learn. It hadn't occurred to me that the very song of my life was about to begin, and that such a song wouldn't be written by me alone. You would be my co-writer, Vinyl.

We had a song to write together, and it would be our song. It would be us.

That night, to relax me, you mentioned a planned get-together at the park, an afterdark soiree of sorts. You talked of something akin to a meteor-shower, and I thought you were daft. Nevertheless, you dried my tears and plopped me back onto my hooves. I think a part of me secretly wished that you would have carried me, but I knew better than to demand too much. After all, my beloved fillyfriend had turned into an angel before my very eyes. Could I have demanded for two miracles—much less one—in a single night?

And yet, as we trotted onto the hilltop, surrounded by neighbors and smiles, and the heavens burned alive with the cosmic streaks of a magical world beyond, I found nothing more dazzling than the shine in your eyes, nothing more illuminating than your smile. I was the luckiest pony in the world, for I was actually a pony for once, and not some equine shell clinging to a cello, trying to make sense of the sacrifice her mother had made, a sacrifice that had consumed her and left me an echo of her sobs.

But you, Vinyl? What had you sacrificed? As a matter of fact, there was no loss; there was no destruction of precious things. Everything was so blissfully simple, so prosperous and good. You had me, and I had you—because you had given yourself, and it was all gain. You had smiled at me on a night full of shooting stars, an evening when you had decided not to wear your infamous shades, so that I could see every bit of the angel that had freed this phantom from her pantomime.

I had fallen in love with you, because you had made me. I've clung to you ever since, the center of my world, the anchor of my heart.

Dearest Vinyl, I have read the dead pages of the Tome of Ending. All that exists beneath us is darkness and despair. Agony encompasses eternity, and the only promise for peace is the inability to perceive it. Now, more than ever, I so do wish I could hold you, and that you could hold me.

The ringing in my ears is back. If I lie very still, I can hear an echo to it, a scraping noise, as if my mother is sliding back towards me on burlap funeral shrouds. Perhaps she wonders why I'm not onstage, why I'm not playing her endless dirge. I'm trying not to think of it—of what I feel, of what I've learned. I'm trying to think of a song instead, but it was never finished. We were never finished.

I think I will lie here some more, at least until the sobs go away.

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia


















Dear Vinyl,

I have never been much of a church-going pony. A young life of being shipped like parcel from one concert hall to another never afforded me much time for worship, not that I would have made much of such a venture. I never really lived—never really felt anything, neither divine nor concrete—until I met you. And we both know how you've always felt about organized religion.

Still, it doesn't change the fact that I'm sitting here, numb and devoid of energy, in the front row pew of Masada's Harmonious Assembly Cathedral.

None of the clergy have attempted to bother me. Right now, the monks and layponies of this place wander about their daily business, leaving me to my solitude. That is a blessing, I suppose: to not be disturbed. I may not be of a mind to pray to ancient alicorn spirits, but I am meditating here in some fashion or another nonetheless.

There's something about the structure of a church like this, the architectural grandeur and plethora of burning candles, that makes even a secular mare like me feel secure, as if hundreds of millions of souls who have been born and died before me have likewise run these circles of fragmented faith, their most beloved ideas challenged and threatened by empirical forces hitherto incomprehensible.

So many ponies have believed in the same thing for so many years, in spite of a static world that refuses to change, that fails to grant them miracles after entire lifetimes of patient waiting. And still, in spite of it all, the majority of them have kept the faith. They have held true to their creed with utmost zeal and perseverence.

What am I holding true to, Vinyl? My journey is my creed, and I have undergone the greatest test of all.

I do not sit in this church, having brought with me a copy of the holy alicorn texts. No, there is something ancient and glowing beneath the folds of this wonderous cloak. Even here, in this most sacred of places, deep within the heart of the holy city of Masada, I have dared to read the dark pages of the Tome of Ending, my eyes tracing the very words written by Starswirl—the words that made his eyes go blind. Only now, I know why he lost his sight. I know why he went mad. And I know why he went away.

The truth is, he didn't vanish, he simply accelerated—heading swiftly towards the only place he had to go... the one place we ponies all have to go.

There is an end to everything, my beloved Vinyl. The secret truth—the nugget of reality that the entire world has yet to realize—is that the end itself never ends.

The end of all things is perpetual. The energy of life divides itself, going faster among smaller distances, never stopping yet never reaching its destination, never resting, never escaping the anguish of existence. To that extent, somepony—some valiant martyr—had to write a book to document the ceaseless nature of that "end." That somepony was Starswirl, and his life's journey had a final chapter, a chapter titled the Tome of Ending.

Thousands of years ago, the ponies of Masada scoffed and grumbled at Starswirl. Now, he finally has a reader, an audience. And just like his book, just like his words, I too can never end.

And while there is so much despair in that thought, there is so much hope as well. I realize this. I came to this church not to find hope, but because there is hope inside me, and I needed a place for it to flourish, for it to dance among the candlelight as I quietly, meditatively, and patiently fought the blindness away, just like you gently coaxed the template of a pony out of my sobbing shell years ago, so that we both might construct a glorious soul in its place.

It is time to build something else now, Vinyl. I very much suspect that it will be a path, a route through the darkness. I have the steps of Starswirl the Bearded to guide me, but only my dance around the holes he's outlined will bring me to the crest of ending.

And every dance deserves music. Care to sing with me, Vinyl?

In good faith,
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I ran out of bits four nights ago. I didn't realize it until the owners of this inn banged on my door, threatening to kick me out. I didn't even realize how much time had passed by. I had spent days and nights pouring through the Tome of Ending, memorizing the words and warnings of Starswirl. What had once been the poetry of a mad sorceror was starting to make sense to me. What had once filled me with dread was starting to become a meter for me to bend my cello strings to.

I feel as though things are falling into place. I know that there is so much darkness ahead, but that's what the Tome is here for. It's meant to light the path for me, much like the book's spine glows in the shadowed recesses of my room. It's the actual act of treading that shadowy path that stands to threaten my heart and soul—which, quite frankly, have become mere words to me now.

After all, just what is the spirit of a pony, Vinyl? Is it what we call it? Is it something that we feel? Does it exist because our beliefs give it substance? Are we what we choose to be, or is there some essential pattern to it all, something that gives us animation, something that gave the ancient alicorns their pride and purpose when the cosmos were first spun into motion?

At least they were real: the alicorns, I mean. I don't just mean the celestial sisters that monitor us today: Celestia, Luna, Cadance, and Twilight Sparkle. I mean the ones who came before everything, the true ones, the primordial alicorns that breathed life into the desolate valleys of the world, that painted the canvas of this earth with green vibrance and blue fluidity. There are so many colors to this sphere, that it seems too good of a picture to be true.

I now know this to be a fact, just as Starswirl once did. Unlike him, though, I'm still too enthralled with curiosity to go mad with the knowledge.

The spine of this book—the bright, white shard—is not any ordinary chunk of alabaster. It is, as a matter of fact, the last surviving physical piece of Wh'lynsehaym, a most holy name which in the ancient alicorn tongue stands for "Star Father."

Yes, my dear Vinyl, I have in my possession the very horn of the first alicorn ever recorded to exist. Wh'lynsehaym was present at the time of Creation; he provided the spark that spun the cosmos into orbit of one another. How the timeless alicorn's source of mana became a part of a book that could be carried in mortal hooves is beyond me, though I suspect it was beyond Starswirl as well. Perhaps the sorceror of old had flung himself into a fugue state, becoming a mindless golem for the moment when he was bequeathed the book. Maybe it was this same possession that allowed him to trot back to civilization, blind as a bat.

Whatever the case, the horn of Wh'lynsehaym is as much a piece of the Tome as the other parts, and they all serve purposes of their own.

The horn protects and enchants the spells contained within, and there are many of them, Vinyl. I am no unicorn, but it doesn't take an apprentice in the arts of sorcery to know that the air is positively brimming with magic each time I flip this book open.

The leather binding is not dragonscale, as I had once speculated, but something else that's quite similar. On several occasions, Starswirl makes written references to the Chaos Realm, and that the beings indicative of that nebulous junction between the planes of reality had "donated" their flesh to the binding of the Tome to end all tomes. Chaos has a masking effect on positive and negative energy, acting as a cloaking field in a way. I suspect that such a thing will be of priceless aid to me.

And the pages—I am reluctant to say—are indeed petrified strips of equine flesh. But what ponies do they belong to? I cannot even begin to guess: but I do know this. Every alternating page is branded with a different symbol, totalling in five separate insignias total, and each of them alternating. After paying close attention to the five different symbols, I combined all of them in my mind's eye, and I realized that the resulting image perfectly resembled the emblem that marks the front and back covers of the book. What does this stand for? Six symbols in total?

I recall the tale of Starswirl's departure from the western gates of Masada three thousand years ago. He had drawn something in the sand, a diagram, a paradoxical corkscrew of chambers—five in total—forever spiraling into the earth, until a gust of wind blew it all away before Feathermane's gaze. Was the entire illustration itself the sixth symbol, a grand portrait crafted by the five images spiraling within?

As I read more and more of Starswirl's writings, a pattern emerges, and I am starting to understand the purpose of the truth he had temporarily bestowed this mortal world, only for it to come across as a paradox to an apprentice who would later turn blind. Perhaps Feathermane's one sin was not endeavoring to follow physically after Starswirl's steps.

I know where I am going, Vinyl. I am about to make the trek that Starswirl could—twice—but Feathermane never would. Maybe this is what will keep me from going blind.

After all, unlike Starswirl, the road map has already been written for me, be it ever a dark, dark descent.

I've spent too much time writing, thinking, pondering. I am broke, and they are banging on the door to kick me out of this inn. I know the path that lies before me. I know the things I must do to get there, to do it safely—as well as bravely. The first step is to earn some bits, for I am not in the right condition to make this journey. There are things I must lose... things I must give up.

And then, like gravity, I will give in.
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I can't remember the last time I ever cared about an audience. I know that sounds like an awfully complacent thing to say. You, on the other hoof, have always adored the ponies who attended your venues. You became one with your audience, treating them as equals, greeting them all like friends and peers.

I suppose, as a young child prodigy who had fame thrusted upon her, I erected a wall between myself and the ponies whom I performed for. After all, my transition was such a jarring thing. I was whisked from the impoverished streets of my youth and into the luscious lifestyle of road tours and aristocratic etiquette with the force of a hurricane wind. The death of my mother, albeit tragic, was like a flash fire burning through my soul, charring to bits any scant traces of me that could still feel, empathize, or simply enjoy life.

When I stood on stage, and the bright lights illuminated me and my cello, the faces of those standing in the front rows vanished, so that I could just as well have been playing for a grand, empty abyss. I felt immeasurable piece with the sensation of being alone in those concert halls. I dwelled a little too much on the feeling, perhaps.

I imagine that's why meeting you was so refreshing, dearest Vinyl. You made me realize something that my mother had always endeavored to teach me, but was far too overcome with the elements of her passing to convey. You showed me that music was the bridge by which living things could communicate with one other. When we shared music, we experienced union, meaning, and joy in the passing moment. For the first time in years, the stage had become a stage for me once again, and it's been indescribably rapturous to share such a spotlight with you.

Just minutes ago, I finished a three-hour session on a street corner, playing various bits from the Lunar Princess Suites. I've earned several bits, enough for me to buy the things that I need for the journey ahead, but I failed to see where the money came from. There was no spotlight, no illuminated stage blinding me, and yet I still couldn't see any of the ponies' faces.

The citizens of Masada have fallen into shadow all around me. They do not live—they never have, and they never will. A gigantic abyss devours them, encompasses all of them, and by playing my cello—by clinging to music—I am hanging aloft by a thread, my hooves dangling perilously over the shadowy conflagration of infinitesimally tragic life.

My heart weights a ton. At any second, I feel as though it will rip straight through me, falling into the shadows beyond to join them. The harrowing thing is, after reading the Tome of Ending, I know exactly where it will go.

I am hungry, and yet I am too nauseous to eat. This city is too loud. I can't go back to the inn; they don't lease rooms to corpses. I must stay awake. I don't like what I see now when I close my eyes.

I miss you,
-Octavia















Dear Vinyl,

I began my "shopping spree" with a trip to the spas, although I didn't go there for a rinse this time. There is nothing to bathe for anymore; I've smelled my last lavenders.

The mares were happy to see me, as if my last fortuitous visit was something of epic scale. That enthusiasm immediately died, however, upon receiving my latest request. The maidservants gave me long faces full of quivering eyes, and yet I did not falter in my determination. I slid the bits across the front table, removed my good cloak, and sat before a mirror, waiting for them to follow through with the service.

I do not blame them for being hesistant. I shudder now just to confess this entire account in writing to you. However, these letters are meant to do more than express my love—but to show proof of it.

I know what needs to be done for me to get to my destination. Thanks to Starswirls' Tome, I know the trials that I have to endure, as well as the means by which I have to surpass them.

The mares gathered around me. One bravely took the shears and approached me from behind. I don't exagerrate when I say that I heard one or two of them sobbing. Nevertheless, they made swiftly with the task, if not delicately. In less twenty minutes, my ears flicked freely, unobstructed. I can't remember the last time my head has felt so cool. I am thankful for my cloak.

Several of them gazed melancholically at me, their eyes searching for meaning. A lot of them must have thought that I was endeavoring to sell the hair. Imagine their astonishment when I requested that the mane be packaged, along with my tail hair. Undoubtedly, they thought I was mad. Perhaps I am mad. That matters little. I'll be leaving Masada soon: leaving its sounds, its smells, and its hum of life. I asked for the hair to be bundled in silk, and the mares reluctantly complied.

I left the spas in a brisk trot, for I was a pony on a mission. The rubbing of my cloak's hood against my skull only heightened the itching sensation that was starting to overwhelm me. Nevertheless, I made straight way for a market bazaar in the lower streets. After an hour of searching, I found a place that was selling foal-sized musical instruments. Once there, I pointed out a remarkably sturdy violin and asked the merchant about it.

I'm not quite sure what perplexed him more: my freshly sheared mane or the fact that I was asking for a violin while I carried a perfectly good cello in its case. I showed that I had the bits to buy the instrument, and yet he showed hesitance, emphasizing the fact that the violin was merely a practice tool, and it was far too tiny for an adult pony of my size.

I told him that I knew perfectly well how small it was, and that I needed it regardless. Not one to argue with an easy sale, or perhaps desperate to rid himself of an insane mare, he hoofed me the violin. It is an adorable thing, Vinyl, something you would undoubtedly giggle upon seeing. I had an instrument like it when I first started practicing in the slums of lower Canterlot. Those were desperate, dissonant days, accompanied by the sounds of wailing cats and my mother's wheezing coughs.

I do so terribly dislike cats.

I didn't stop with that purchase. I trotted about the bazaar, ultimately landing myself a pocketknife, a series of bandages, a length of rope, a tiny satchel, and enough flint and tinder to set a small forest on fire. All the while, ponies stared at me like I was possessed. I would have resembled one of the many monks who flock to that place, only I was clinging to a violin case on one side and a cello case on another. Indeed, my belongings are becoming very cumbersome. It's difficult carrying both instruments in addition to my saddlebag of things. The only consolation I have is knowledge—dark and sacred knowledge—which assures me that, in due time, I will gladly be departing with half of the clutter.

So long as I have the Tome, some music strings, and the fragments of your symphony, dearest Vinyl, then I am perfectly prepared for the journey ahead.

The queer thing is that I still have some bits on me. Night is beginning to fall. I think I will make the best of things and embark for the west in the morning. My stomach hungers, so perhaps I will attend to that first.

How curious a sensation: to be having one's last meal.
-Octavia















My Dear Vinyl,

T'was a lovely dinner that I just had. Here in Masada, they call it Sunlight's Blessing: toasted bread with sheets of cheese and butter slid in between. A pony like you would have called it "grilled cheese sandwiches." A pony like you would be right.

I can't think of a better last meal than one you would have approved of.

Sleep isn't coming to me; when it does, I doubt I'll be at peace with it. Morning seems like a millennium away. How fitting to think of time in hyperbolic stretches within a city like this, a city that has seen ages come and go, a city that has devoured and blessed so many lives with its culture, religion, and overall permanence.

Only... nothing is ever, ever permanent, Vinyl.

I dwell on this, sitting here on the slopes of Masada's Hill of Passing. I am not alone: two dozen monks sit in droves just meters away, all humming hymns in a singular drone of bass beauty. There's a reason for their presence: this very spot was where Starswirl the Bearded stood with the Tome of Ending, attempting to issue a final warning to the ambivalent mortals of Equestria. Feathermane stood close to him, around about where the olive tree sits to my right, overshadowing me in the starlight. The branches of the thing are withered and jagged, like a plant that expresses its anguish at being alive for so many thousands of years. How awkward and blind a thing nature is, to challenge eternity with such vigor that it tortures itself in ascetic diligence, like the emaciated pilgrims who have come from all across the world to sing and die just a breath's sob from me.

I face west, and a looming blackness mirrors my countenance. They say that the storms above the wasteland beyond Masada's walls only clear up once in a century, transpiring on a day when—miraculously—no single pony dies in Equestria, no foal is miscarried, and no monster or band of orcs is banished to the depths.

I stare ceaselessly into the black clouds, the raging storm of ages. I see strobes of lightning, small flashes of madness in the midst of so much conflagration, but nothing ever clears up. The light is gone, having shrank away and hidden itself in my mind, like a tiny flame flickering into the cold thick of night.

It occurs to me that all my life, I've known just how small that flame is: what a tiny and inconsequential candle all my hopes and dreams have ever been. It was only when you came and blessed me, touched me, held me in those forelimbs of yours that refused all cold that I felt like the darkness didn't matter, that there was nothing to run from, because after years of stumbling my way through road tours and concerts, trying to outrun the blackness that had spread through my mother's eyes like an ashen shroud when she last breathed upon me, I had found a place that was safe—I had found my home, a loving niche in your embrace, so that my tears finally had a place to go. You didn't have to illuminate my life, Vinyl, you merely had to give me sweet music to dance in the darkness with.

And oh, how we've danced, a waltz beyond compare, a seasonable shuffle that made a ballroom out of life, and a melody out of every sigh.

I long to dance with you again, somewhere beyond the darkness, somewhere beyond the hymns of the dead and the dying, where there is no ringing in my ears and no cold to send my limbs into shivering.

I wrap the cloak tighter around my figure. Everything is colder with my mane gone. I stare at the purple starlight above the edge of the world, and still it doesn't solace me. I miss your forelimbs, beloved Vinyl. I miss your awful jokes that could turn even the most abominable of situations over on its head. I ponder over the quips you would have to say about me, my mane, and these monks, serenading me like angels, blessing me for the journey ahead.

I finally entreat the dark storm clouds, asking for something, launching a prayer from this holy city into the great abyss beyond.

I ask for your blessing,
-Octavia












My Most Beloved Vinyl,

The day we first met was a lovely accident, an awkward catastrophe that only fate itself could arrange.

I had just arrived in upper Manehattan for a long-scheduled rehearsal. In two weeks, I was to perform in a concert for the benefit of the city's mayor and his wife. My spirits were anything but ecstatic at the time. My birthday was coming up, and if there is anything that growing older reminds me of, it's that my mother has not been around to do so with me.

So, it was in a clouded mind that I regarded my present situation. The chauffer who was charged with carrying me and my stagecoach across town to the rehearsal studio had fallen ill. Apologizing fitfully, he parked the wagon, excused himself, and dashed into a nearby alley, whereupon my ears were assaulted by a nauseating chorus of wretching noises.

Perhaps that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever the case, it was a very despondent and sullen Octavia sitting in the backseat of the stagecoach that day. Something possessed her—possessed me—and before she had given a second thought about it, she was peeling herself from the seat, picking up her cello case, and trotting lonesomely through the lone streets of lower Manehattan, abandoning the stagecoach and chauffeur completely.

Perhaps it was the smell of the place that carried me forward, that strung me through those decrepit avenues like a kite. They did, in fact, resemble the lower slums of Canterlot in so many ways. I don't feel awfully nostalgic for my youth, Vinyl; you know this. The very sight of trash-filled gutters and the sounds of fighting cats send me into fitful panic attacks.

Nevertheless, I was drawn into those streets that day. Maybe I was looking for something: a miniature version of myself, perhaps? I have long dreamt of adopting a foal, a young filly whom I can rescue from the same pits that had once engulfed me, a child whom I can sit with, brush her mane, and give her the adoration that my mother always wanted to, but sadly lacked the years to do so with.

What I saw instead were collapsing buildings, burning bonfires, and scores of leering eyes and faces of the local populace. It's a miracle that I wasn't robbed then and there for my sins. I was a fool, a rich pony out of her league, entempered with the grossly inaccurate assumption that she could somehow blend back into the molting skin of that that which had incidentally spawned her twenty years prior.

Perhaps I wanted something terrible to happen to me. A very masochistic chunk of my soul pondered over what it would mean to embrace the night without the ritualistic demand for an encore. It wasn't until the daylight fell and the shadows of that place quadrupled that I started to experience true fear. I realized just how out of my element I was: for the past twelve years, I had been shaped into an elegant, fragile creature of aristocracy. I was a stranger to my own wounds, and I was nearly throwing away all of my fortunes—and for what? How would it benefit me? How would it have made my mother proud?

My trot turned into a canter, and soon that bled into a gallop. I was starting to panic. I had thought that I knew true despair; I was only a foal wearing an adult's bowtie. Every shadow was shifting and turning about me. I saw bodies chasing me out of the corners of my eye. The ringing noise began in my ears, and the sounds of wailing, starving cats echoed out of every alley. My voice was too dry to call out for my mother, and still I knew that I would merely be squeaking into the dry abyss of her eyes.

It was then that I saw light: a bright, strobing, manic affair. Like a panicked moth to flame, I flew towards it, and I was greeted with immense noise. I had stumbled into a warehouse of sorts on the edge of the commercial district, only it had become a dance hall. Yet, it wasn't like any ballroom I had ever attended. The ponies there did not waltz and they did not sashay. They jumped and writhed and sweated like a herd of frantic animals. They were too sweaty to bother with the heat of the moment; every single nerve in their body had one command and one command alone to obey: "jump." And they did indeed jump; they leapt and bounded and cavorted, spinning and thrashing in place as though they were making sweet love to the air.

All the while, a grotesque beat of epic proportion was repetitiously and demoniacally possessing them, like some dark mantra from the ether beyond had been made manifest in this once-holy world. I gazed upon this crowd, this devilish cult that had landed upon the immaculate bosom of Equestria, and I had no choice but to move with it, for I was swimming with it. I quite simply had no room to stand in place. I recall being jostled around rather violently, like a gray ball tethered to the end of an elastic string, flung by the whims of some invisible child. It was a monumental feat in and of itself to keep my cello case in one piece. I didn't know whether to sob or scream, so I settled for shivering instead, ultimately finding a place in the corner to cling my case to my chest and hope and pray for the flickering storm of chaos to consume itself.

It was then that a mare stumbled into me, her pale horn almost stabbing my blasted eye out. She spoke to me, yelling as she did so. Yet, compared to the noise of that echoing hovel, her screams sounded like an angelic whisper. I tried responding just as loudly, but I found that I couldn't summon a single shout. I had been living in whispers ever since a little foal wailed at the bedside of her dying mother. Maybe if I had told the mare that, my sobs would have been loud enough for her to hear me.

But it turns out that she didn't need to hear me. She took one look at my disheveled mane, my lopsided bow-tie, and my rattling cello case. What came next was a grin, then a tug of her hoof against mind. Squeaking, I found myself tugged into the centermost nucleus of the writhing warehouse. There, we both ascended a stage where she presented a throne of electronic equipment, all of it flashing with magical vibrance that matched the cacophony of the place.

She asked me to sit down, and I did so with great nervousness. Then, before my very eyes, her hooves blurred over the panels and turntables and equipment all around us, and the music changed like thunder obeying the whim of an alicorn goddess. Suddenly, the beat slowed, and the music melted into something that was lulling, melodious, and even soothing. The crowd's gyrations turned placid, like a rolling sea beneath the eye of a hurricane.

It was then that I realized that she—that you were in charge of the entire theatrics. You smiled at me, asking if things were more tolerable now. Like a self-righteous imbecile, I simply scoffed at you, asking what kind a musician you truly were to have a complex apparatus do all the work with pre-recorded samples.

You didn't seem to care; you only cared to live. You shared with me the secrets of your joy, the intricacies of your talent, and you made it all seem so beautifully simple. I marveled at what a dance it was, to operate each dial and switch of the instruments like you were navigating a mine field with your forelimbs. I no longer felt the urge to ridicule you, but it wasn't like I had a choice. You didn't give me much chance to breathe. You kept talking and rambling, and soon what you carried on about had nothing to do with live music sampling, but rather with local hoofball teams and celebrity gossip and the bad bagel that you had for breakfast and how your left elbow always cracks whenever you spin a record really vigorously.

And before I knew it, you had sped the tempo up once more. The crowd raved and thrashed around us, refilling the sweaty warehouse with noise and insanity, but I had hardly noticed. I was enthralled with you, with how your voice found a special octave at which to yell, with a gift that somehow made it disparate from the deaffening bass and the staccatto blasts. All the while, you brandished those glinting shades and a grin that could consume manure and produce roses. There was nothing in life too sacred to joke about, and nothing too dirty that you couldn't make sparkly clean with a bath of crystalline laughter.

I was so absorbed in your persona, that I hadn't noticed the hour coming when the dance hall finally cleared out. I felt guilty all of the sudden, as if I had consumed your entire evening. You assured me that your night had "just started," and that you had many hours before morning to burn away on songwriting. We went out to eat together in the dead thick of night. I soon found us sitting in a lone diner, a delightfully dirty niche in the crook of Manehattan's deepets of pits. The waitress there smiled at us as if we were princesses, and the two of you chatted about famous musicians like you were sisters joined at the flank.

I barely talked. How could I? I sat there the entire morning, sipping coffee, gazing at your shades and wondering what lay beneath, curious if your eyes sparkled with as much intensity as your voice did. Even when you spoke quietly, your words were bombastic feats of percussion against the walls around us. I suspect that if you had whispered, it would have shattered diamonds, and that was fine by me. I needed my soul to be shaken that morning, and you did just that, by doing that which I could never do: by reaching into the audience and grabbing a single soul that needed to be rescued and embracing her with your sound, the most deliciously awkward lullaby I've ever had the grace to experience, and still relish the very thought of.

We walked through Manehattan's Central Park two hours later. I was nervous about muggers stalking about. You said that if anypony tried to jump us, you'd smash their skulls against the sidewalk with your bare hooves. I completely and utterly believed you. You made a joke about the ridiculousness of my bow-tie, and I laughed—realizing that it was the first time I had giggled at anything in my adult life. Just then, a curtain of sadness must have drawn over my eyes, for I knew that the sun would be rising soon.

I murmured something, low and frightened at first, like a baby bird too shy to ask for a meal. I felt like I had to tell you something—anything—about myself, as if it might make up for all of the joy and politeness that you had bestowed upon me.

To my relief, you interrupted me, your face grinning as you patted my shoulder in a brusque fashion. You said that the very moment you saw me, you knew that I was a mare who was sick and tired of performing for others, and that I could stand to be somepony else's audience for once.

I almost cried, for something came to me just then, a beautiful idea as pristine and immaculate as your ivory coat. Perhaps my mother hadn't encouraged my talent because she wanted me to be rich and famous; maybe she just wanted me to be happy.

Life, after all, is a song, something that is hardly original, and yet can be milked to produce so many drops of succulence, something that can only be enjoyed when it is shared.

And for once, I felt as though I finally met a pony I could share it with.

It stung all the more when we had to part ways. I realized that this had to have been nothing more than a fortuitous exchange of thoughts and feelings; I would likely never see you again. As if you could read my thoughts through my expression, you gazed straight at my face with that devil-may-care grin and told me that Manehattan was too small to handle your "awesome beats" without shaking, so that when the time came that you performed again, I would inevitably hear you and that's where you would be waiting for me to talk with once more.

I smiled, not knowing whether to call that a sweet thing or a foolish thing for a pony to say. I settled for both at once, and then I fumbled, for I wanted ever so desperately to see what lie beneath those shades, to know that a true, equinist soul was the reason for making me laugh, for making me feel alive, for making me remember what music was truly meant to do: bring ponies together and make delicate melody out of misery.

Instead, I blurted my name out, like a shy little foal. You laughed, saying that "Octavia" sounded goofy. It was then that I realized that you had no idea who I was, that my fame had not reached your bass-riddled ears. Everything you had ever done over the past eight hours had been out of genuine friendliness and adoration. I was almost too dazed to register your name when you shared it with me in turn.

"Vinyl Scratch." How lovely and obtuse all at once. I never once knew a name that I actually wanted to physically cuddle up against, not until that dawn.

You yawned and waved and that was it. I was alone with my sighs once again, only they had a toasty texture to them now, like warm bedsheets I could roll myself in. They carried me into the rich district of Mane Street, where I found my hotel—along with my entire company of agents and fellow musicians pacing worrisomely in the lobby.

Yes, they gave me an earful of chastisement for my sudden disappearance overnight. Yes, they berated me for almost jeopardizing the entire rehearsal that had been planned. Indeed, I was once more ferried about from studio to studio, utilized for my cello talents, recorded and re-recorded like I was a plastic distributor of felicitous noise.

But none of it bothered me this time. I had a constant, bass thump in the back of my mind, and each time my eyes shook upon the contemplation of it, I saw the glint of your shades, and I smiled. My agents even looked at me strange, as if it was a sin to smile while I did what I did. That was how I realized what a bizarre masquerade my existence had become. When two weeks passed and I performed before the mayor and his entourage, I erected the same wall between myself and the audience, only this time I was decorating that barricade with memories of you, of colorful snapshots of those precious few hours we had together, bathed in the octaves of your pompous voice, glittering in the rising sunlight like your blue bangs did as we strolled through the park with the morning dew kissing us all over like newborns.

The concert ended; there was a standing ovation. Elite ponies and famous newspapers would herald the venue as one of the best in decades.

I didn't care. I sat in my hotel room for twelve hours straight following the performance, unable to sleep. This insomnia persisted through the next day, and when the sun began setting again, and the warmth of Manehattan glowed brilliantly into the falling darkness, I realized that I could no longer sit straight. Every building face glittered like the eyes of a mare that I wasn't yet blessed to see.

I sneaked out again, throwing myself into the streets. I had left my cello behind; the only music was the pulse in my ears, like the bass beat that had hypnotized me to your words, and it left me feeling vulnerable, anxious, naked—save for a bowtie and a quivering muzzle.

I was galloping by the time I reached the dance hall. The smile on my face nearly broke my skin, for you were right: I could hear the noise against the buildings all around us. You didn't perform for the city—you were the city. You were its heart and its blood and its glowing notion to defy the darkness. I had to dive through the writhing bodies to get anywhere near the lights strobing around you, only to realize that I didn't have to wander far. Your flickering shades found me, and you pointed a white hoof as if directing cannonfire to my coordinates.

You shouted my name with a smile, only you didn't. You had condensed my title to two syllables, as if the entire thing was too big to fit in your mouth along with your grin, but life was silly enough for you to afford both. I was not about to complain. I wanted to be somepony's audience again.

And since that night, I never stopped attending your performances.

Your most dedicated fan,
-Octavia











Dear Vinyl,

I awoke screaming again. The ringing was in my ears. I swear, it was stronger than ever.

It felt as though my dreams had dragged something up from the darkness: a preview, perhaps. I couldn't understand it. That didn't stop me from stumbling into an alleyway and vomiting like a sick little foal.

So much for my last meal.

It's daylight, but I can hardly tell. The rising sun is so weak against the walls of Masada, so sickly and pale as it scrapes across the eggshell lengths of the sky. The dark clouds hanging over the west resemble a nasty boil, and already I can smell jaundice with each inhalation I take.

I don't know how I'm going to do this; I suppose the key is not to think. I only wish I could stop myself from feeling all the same.

It's bitterly cold in the morning as I prepare to pass through the gates of the western wall. There're hardly any ponies around me, only a starving monk or two. As I scale the paths, I see lone carcasses lining the ancient granite steps. The skeletons of dead birds and starving dogs linger on either side of me, too petrified for the worms to bother with. Very few souls dwell in this district along the western edge. There's a reason for that.

I'm pausing for a moment to gather my bearings. It was a rough night's sleep atop the Hill of Passing. After trotting for a hundred yards, I'm overcome with a great sense of dizziness. I wish my cello case didn't weigh so much more than the tiny violin. I feel as though the most perilous trek will be the first leg of the descent. Hopefully, Starswirl's Tome of Ending will make the rest of the path more bearable, but I know better.

It's so very cold. I wrap the cloak tighter and think of warm nights, warm breaths, and warm laughter before the fireplace. We counted the dancing sparks together and pretended that they were shooting stars. Your mane smelled like Hearth's Warming and peppermint.

It's a very nice cloak.
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

There's a township out here. It turns out that Masada isn't the very last city on the edge of Equestria after all. Past the west wall, the landscape slopes down, dipping through loose rocks and lengths of thorny shrubbery. Then, past a line of dying olive trees acting as meager gates of their own, this one little shantytown stands.

"Stands" is a loose term. The whole village leans precariously towards the east, as if perpetually encumbered by some invisible blast wave that's been pelting it for millennia. The dust here is mesmerizing, and the ground swirls with miniature cyclones of debris. Aside from a tumbleweed or two, I thought the entire village was inert. It was then that I heard a muttering sound to the left of me, and I jumped so hard that I nearly dropped my music cases.

There are ponies here: old, decrepit, lonely souls. Their coats are like wrinkled raisins, devoid of color. I can barely make out their cutie marks from where some obscure blight has constantly bleached them. They sit on the front patios of their splintery lean-tos, their eyes full of pale clouds as if they've all taken turns devouring the Tome of Ending in my grasp.

What are they doing here? Are they all blind? What do they do for a living besides sit and decay? Do they eat anything? Do they have a language? Do any of the ponies in Masada care about them—or is this where the elders go to meditate on misery before they die?

I do not understand. I suspect that my confusion is something that will only increase the deeper I go. As I pass through the last dwelling of "living" ponies, I take a final glance at the buildings. The sides immediately facing the western wasteland are blacker, more rotten, falling apart by the shingles. Masada beyond the decaying hub looks like a gray iceberg floating away.

I turn towards the storm cloud and the endless desert. I do believe I am done with sunlight.

Faithfully,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

When I passed the last tree hours ago, a pair of vultures were perched upon it. One was digging its beak ravenously into a chunk of meat. A green scalp was all that I could make out; presumably the scant remnants of orc flesh. The scavengers watched me trot along with their beady eyes, and then they resumed their infinite watch upon the precipice of desolation.

Everything before me now is open desert, a veritable flat plane of stone, gravel, and more stone. It is deathly quiet out here. The only sound is the swishing of my cloak and the plodding of my hooves as I trot over perpetual flatness.

The stars above are brilliant, Vinyl. I've never seen the cosmos with this much beauty and dazzling colors. It really is a spectral cornucopia of wonder above. They say that the original alicorns came from the heavens. At this point, I have to wonder why. Is there anything so despicable and unlikeable about the celestial sphere that one would abandon it all and come down to a place like this?

Don't get me wrong, beloved Vinyl. I do cherish the earth and all of its beautiful qualities. It is simply that I know full well the degree to which negative energies have coalesced around this plane. Once upon a time, I would have ignored it all, but then I stumbled upon the Tome of Ending. There's a reason why Starswirl the Bearded neglected to die in peace. I'd pray to Celestia for understanding, but then I realize that even she wouldn't have the answer nor the solution.

None of the gods or goddesses can help us. After all, they've tried before, and now a great darkness looms before me, a darkness that is consuming me... that is consuming all of us.

We exist to be devoured, Vinyl. The key to peace is finding a way to be asleep when the unthinkable happens.

I feel night coming on: at least I think it's night. Everything is so dark and barren; the sunlight crumbles before the thunderclouds, and I can't tell how much time has passed since I left the last piece of civilization. It's bone-bitingly cold, and I hear a rumbling in the distance. Every time it echoes, my ears twitch with a ringing noise.

It's very odd. I feel like a piece of myself has been here before. Maybe we ponies have all visited this place, passing each other by like wayward spirits before being tugged to our young bodies as we are being foaled to enter this physical world. What a delightfully grim preview it must have been, but it gives me an oddly blissful feeling to meditate upon as I lie here to rest.

You and I have likely crossed paths before.
-Octavia









Vinyl,

There are things out here, circling above me. Things that shriek and echo into the night. I awoke to the sounds of them, and ever since I haven't been able to stop shivering. I'm naked and vulnerable out here in this desert. They must be able to see me. What are they? I don't remember Starswirl mentioning them in the Tome of Ending. I must read more, because I didn't expect to run into something so horrific so soon. Here's hoping that the brown texture of the cloak blends in with the arid rock. They might be able to pass me by. They just might. Oh, Celestia help me. I can't unhear them. Like dying cats in the darkness. Please. I love you so much, Vinyl. Please...

-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I almost feel like shredding apart the last little bit of hastily written madness, but I have decided to preserve it. There is no telling how many more times I will find the need to document the moment right when it collapses all around me. Sometimes truth is absolute in its most raw form. Fear not, though, my beloved Vinyl. The fact that I am writing this entry should be ample evidence that I surpassed my panicked situation. I suspect that the voluminous amount of pages to follow will assure you of the many trials that I have yet to overcome in my sojourn. I hope there's at least some ease in reading all of this that's severely lacking in the toil of writing it.

I shall attempt to explain what I've just been through, though—as always—I cannot promise to be brief.

I was just on the verge of falling into fitful slumber, when sounds over the desert echoed like banshee screams. The repetition and the intensity in which the birdlike sirens sounded off threw me instantly into unspeakable terror. It was in such a state of mind that I wrote that trite, paranoid little paragraph. I do hope you can forgive me.

At some point, I regathered my wits. The noises were circling closer and closer to the surface of the world. I felt my ears twitching with each shriek. At first, I threw my cloak around me in a foalish gesture—like a young filly might do while sleeping in her bed, afraid of monsters in the closet. I then realized that there was a noticeable pattern to the shrieks; it occurred to me that hiding under the cloak was quite likely the most sound decision. With the material draped over me like a blanket, I withdrew the Tome of Ending from my saddlebag and flipped through the ashen-white pages. The horn shard of Wh'lynsehaym illuminated the words of Starswirl.

Sure enough, early into the ancient manuscript, I found an account that Starswirl had made about his journey into the wastes, before he had gone blind. He made mention of the L'ysyhrym, or "winged phantoms" in the ancient alicorn tongue. He detailed them as sentient flying guardians who were charged with keeping the landscape clear of intruders, such as orcish saboteurs who would venture into the pits for nefarious, chaotic purposes.

I realized that—as a living creature having ventured this far—I was likely an intruder to the likes of these L'ysyhrym. As their shrieks drew closer and closer from above, I knew that it was only a matter of time before they swept me off the surface of the earth.

The moment had come for me to call upon the power of Starswirl. I must admit, I did not look forward to this moment, nor did I think that I would be having to rely on the tools he and Feathermane had inadvertently bequeathed me.

I turned to the middle of the Tome. There, the book's pages held a copper hue, with crimson stains along the edges. The foremost page within this section contained the first of many spells, namely the "spell of harmonic equilibrium." The purpose of this incantation, according to Starswirl's notes, is to dispel the leylines flowing through an equine soul, effectively masking its presence within the universe's field of flowing energy.

Unfortunately, Vinyl, I am not a unicorn like you or Starswirl. I do not possess an innate connection to leylines and their otherworldly properties. Thankfully, though, I have the trailing essence of Starswirl enchanting the copper spell pages, as well as the horn of Wh'lynsehaym acting as a channel for its power. What's needed, then—a final ingredient—is the life energy of the spell caster, and there's only one way an earth pony such as myself can provide that.

So, with the noises of the L'ysyhrym sailing closer, and with my limbs shivering to the breaking point, I prepared to perform the first of many unthinkable experiments. Procuring the pocket knife from my saddle bag, I bit onto the neck of my cello case and slit a line across the top of my left forelimb.

The pain shot through me like an arctic blast to my lungs, and I almost stopped cutting altogether. However, I persisted, until a tiny river of blood leaked out. Immediately, I retrieved the blade and pressed my hoof to the page of "harmonic equilibrium." My eyes quivered, for Wh'lynsehaym's horn immediately pulsed, illuminating the patch of desert dirt beneath me and the cloak. I heard a ringing in my ears—but it was delightful this time, melodic in its pitch and constantly lifting, as if with exultant wings. I wondered briefly if I may have been serenaded by alicorns from beyond the grave.

Before I knew it, the ringing stopped, and I felt a staleness overcome me, as if I was suddenly floating in a bubble, apart from the world. My heart rate slowed to a stand-still. My shivers stopped. The pain from my fresh cut had almost entirely left.

Could this have been the "equilibrium" spell at work? I didn't question it; I didn't dare move. At last, the L'ysyhrym's soul-shattering cries came to a halt. I felt a shift in the air, and then the sound of heavy wings beating against the wind. In cyclonic echoes, several bodies soared away from me, and I breathed in relief.

Bless you, Starswirl, for you have made me invisible.

I laid there for the better part of two hours. I knew that so much as moving an inch would have broken the effect that the spell had around me, but I couldn't stay in the desert forever. I had a place to go, however darker the horizon before me.

So, braving everything, I shouldered my belongings, drew the cloak tight around my limbs, and broke into a gallop. I sped over the dusty floor of the world, shivering each time the thunderous clouds rumbled above. I winced—almost limped, even—from the fresh pain in my forelimb. Indeed, I had bandaged the cut that I had made, but it was a very hasty task and I was almost certain it was going to bleed again at any moment. Regardless, I saw the edge of the first of many countless pits ahead of me, and I galloped faster towards my destination.

I was nearly at the crest of the first hole when I heard the shrieks again. It was hard to detect them at first, on account of the boiling thunder gathered above me. Then they multiplied, filling the air with shrill, ghostly bellows that stood the short hairs of my shaved mane on end.

I couldn't help it. I paused at the pits and glanced up at the sky. It was a foolish thing to do, I know, but curiosity is a curse of this world that I've yet to sever.

What I saw was more intriguing than frightening—at least at first. The bodies were pale, like snow-white comets streaking against the volcanic column of rising ash around me, and they were most decidely equine. I saw dangling hooves beneath the flapping of reflective, pallid wings. There were no feathers—only the unmistakable flash of leather, like the pages of Starswirl's Tome. I almost wondered if I had discovered where he got his writing material from.

Another sound broke through the thunder. I glanced southeast, and I saw a shadow against the desert surface. At first, I thought it was another pony much like myself. I quickly recovered from the bizarre vision, realizing that it was a different sort of quadruped altogether. The spine bent and flexed like a predator. I realized that an emaciated coyote had trudged its unfortunate way across the wastes, only to stumble upon the pits where I stood in a confused lurch. For the briefest of moments, its beady eyes flashed like lantern bugs in the dark, and I could have sworn it looked at me.

It was at precisely that moment that a pair of creatures descended on the poor dog in a blink. For half-a-second, there was a mess of entangled white limbs and hooves, and then the canine was yanked up—split into bloody halves and rocketed into the thunderclouds under the chorus of its own horrific yelps. Before I could spot the impossible height to which it had been flown, another of the L'ysyhrym landed halfway between myself and the nearest pit.

A gasp escaped my lips, and I crouched down at the edge of the hole, my wide eyes quivering from under the cloak's hood. I watched as the thin, lithe pegasus lurked around, its pallid bat wings flexing in the twilight air. Its leprotic body was stenciled in rust-bleeding iron tattoos, forming intricate patterns akin to the diorama along the back of a copperhead snake. When it tilted its broad muzzle in my direction—its mucousy nostrils flaring—I saw a leather bandage of scarlet flesh stitched over its eyesockets, written over with words of the alicorn tongue that shone as clear as moonlight: L'ysyhrym Nyrrh Lyn W'hygymiir S'lynn. "Winged Phantoms Bound To Prison Seal."

They were sarosians, Vinyl, though not the same breed that makes up the valiant night guard of the immortal Princess Luna. Legend has it that the sarosians were the first mortal ponies whom the alicorns breathed sentience into, and they were gifted with long life. For a choice few of them, it would appear as though that longevity has become a curse, as they have charged themselves over the eons with the thankless tasks of wiping these wastes clean of all intruders. Glancing up high, I could see patches of darkness layered within the thunderclouds: evidently their lofty homes, and quite possibly the place where they took the poor coyote—and all other mortals foolish enough to have trotted as far as I have—to where the L'ysyhrym feed on the necessary victims of their ardent patrol.

As soon as this thought came to me, I saw the mouth of the waste guard opening, its fanged teeth dripping in the deathlight. A shrill shriek emanated from its diseased muzzle, and I knew that the blind wretch was sounding off. In a matter of seconds, my body's echo would reach its pale ears, and I would be snatched away in a leathery blink, torn to bits just like the coyote.

I turned around, my last view of the surface world flickering in a blur. I dashed and slid down the pit, my limbs slipping almost immediately. As I began my perilous slide into the depths, I heard the swish of an unnatural wind behind me, and I knew that the guardian had missed me by mere inches.

I didn't stop until I tumbled into a pained heap in the center of a branching tunnel. My world had become a sound booth, cocooning me and the echoes of my labored breaths. I looked around, and all I could see in the illumation of Wh'lynsehaym's horn was rock, stone, and more rock. Several branching paths spread before my sight, all carving into the earthen womb of the world. Suddenly, the terrible ringing was louder—sending shivers up my spine.

I had to calm down, so I sat and began writing to you.

And now—yes—I do believe that I can breathe again.

With gratitude,
-Your ever living Vinyl

























Beloved Vinyl,

Darkness abounds.

It is a daunting task simply to trot forward at a snail's pace inside these tunnels. The winding nature of the corridors has utterly blocked out all hint of light from the surface world above. I am utilizing the glow of Wh'lynsehaym's horn from the Tome of Ending, and even still I am nearly stumbling into the craggy rock and porous limestone that comprise the walls of this place.

It is colder than death down here. I thought that I had every expectation of this. Nevertheless, in the last ten hours alone, I have started a fire at least three times, just so I could feel my limbs again.

Indeed, I have been navigating these chambers for the better part of a day. I can already feel my stomach gurgling. If I do not reach my destination soon, I fear that I might starve or something possibly worse.

It's a queer sensation, Vinyl, to be in such desperation within the depths of misery that one seeks something far more horrible as a means of solace. I don't think it's possible at this point to commit to any single thought without being completely and utterly headstrong, or foolish even.

The deeper I go, the more the walls around me begin to tremble. It's been a very subtle thing so far, like the rattling of a house's foundations from the onset of a grand storm. But with each hoofstep I take, I swear that I am hearing a sound that accompanies it. It is a thick and impermeable sound—lacing each breath I take and shaking me to my bones. What's more, it is accompanied by a high pitched whine, a ringing noise... the ringing noise.

Yes, I suspect that I have heard this sound all of my life, but I simply didn't know it until I arrived here.

Celestia help me, Vinyl. As foolish as it sounds, after five years of desperate searching, I almost didn't become a believer in all of this... until now.

I want to scream, but that would only make the ringing louder. My steps are becoming uneven. My shaved head throbs and I feel like collapsing. I think I hear scratching sounds against the rising tumult. I doubt I'm the only thing in these caves.

With caution,
-Octavia























Dear Vinyl,

I knew that my destination was somewhere deep within the bowels of this world. As hyperbolic as that sounds, I don't think I ever once calculated the sheer depth that I would actually have to scale to get there.

Traveling over the past five years has gotten easier for me, as you well know. Trotting several miles in a single day was once something unfeasible to this dainty mare and her even daintier limbs. That soon changed, however, as I found myself crossing the lengths of provinces, kingdoms, and even continents—all primarily by hoof. Soon enough, steep valleys and sheer cliffs were no longer of any major challenge to me. By the time my travels took me back to Ponyville, I must have looked like a completely different pony altogether, her muscles toned by every mountain she had ever climbed, her haunches thickened by every bruise suffered in the quest for knowledge from the furthest corners of the earth.

And yet, in spite of all of the distances I have traveled, both uphill and down, I don't think anything has quite prepared me for this. Not once do I recall having to spend the better part of a day... or perhaps two days attempting to descend a series of winding, claustrophobic tunnels.

This is supremely difficult, Vinyl. True, I have the horn of Wh'lynsehaym, the Star Father, to light my path. But illumination is of very little consolation when I do not know what I am looking at, much less what sort of detours I am approaching.

After all, there is nothing explicitly stated in Starswirl's Tome of Ending to suggest exactly what twists and turns he took to reach his objective. I suppose it's terribly hard for a blind stallion to provide instructions of any sort. I imagine something from beyond the conceivable veil empowered him in his trek. I almost wish it would empower me as well, though I fear it would somehow turn me blind as he became. That is something I cannot afford. Unlike Starswirl, I have a singular goal, an end point to my sojourn. I will need my eyes for such a venture, for they are direct lenses to my heart.

The rock here is changing, at least. The deeper I go, the more porous the surfaces get. I think I detect limestone and hints of subsistence. Perhaps there was an aquifer down here, a subterranean river older than time. Whatever corrupted this portion Equestria's underworld must have dried up the springs ages ago, leaving behind nothing but dust and debris lining the smooth contours of a continuously weaving intestine.

I find my imagination having its sadistic way with my mind as I creep along. For the life of me, I cannot stop thinking about the L'ysyhrym, the sarosians mutated by both time and duty. It was with brilliant ease that they consumed that poor coyote stranded in the middle of the wasteland. At one moment, it stared at me, a lost soul seeking warmth and sense in that starving deathscape. The next moment, it was split in two, dangling in the jaws of equine predators.

The L'ysyhrym were virtual phantoms, protectors of a dark world, darker than the brightest rays of Celestia's reach. They could very easily have lorded over the skies if their ambition took them far away from their posts, past the bastions of Masada, and towards the vulnerable lands of Equestria beyond.

What, then, was it that prevented them from flying effortlessly down these tunnels to capture me? Was it something that nightmarish creatures such as them would fear? Do they know what would have awaited them?

Do I know what awaits me?

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia




























Beloved Vinyl,

I've come to a stop. It's not that I'm starving. It's not that I'm exhausted. A feeling of dread has come over me, as though I am in immediate danger. The problem is, I'm not exactly sure what the threat is. I suppose this is what you would call a "gut feeling," Vinyl. Oh, how I do wish you were here with me. Your intuition was always a blissful, saving grace in moments of confusion and duress.

These tunnels have gotten extremely ugly. That is to say, the walls have taken on a far more decrepit texture, and I no longer have the capacity to blame it on anything even remotely geological.

I started noticing the change about an hour or two ago. The incline of my descent grew steeper, and I heard a staccato reverberation from my hoofsteps. The acoustics had altered dramatically. Gazing up at the bowing ceiling above me and its adjacent rock formations, I began to understand why.

There were... objects clinging to the walls and curved foundations of this place. What's more, they were anything but natural. I caught sight of reflective materials: slates of metal, greaves of bronze, slivers of hammered iron and steel. I've traveled around this world enough to know what armor looks like upon a first glance. Did some expedition once come down here? Did Feathermane or some other scholar of Masada send a legion of soldiers to explore the depths of these goddess-forsaken tunnels?

But then things became even stranger. Not only did I spot pieces of armor, but strips of leather, the scattered remnants of equine hides, bone fragments, and even a skull or two. Not everything belonged to pony anatomy; at one junction of tunnels I saw what had to have been the lower half of an orc, petrified in all its calcified glory.

At first, it was a complete mystery as to why these things were so perfectly preserved. Also, I was at a loss to guess why they clung to the walls so. But right now, as I sit here and write this, I'm observing a rusted helmet dangling half a meter from the top of the ceiling. That's right, Vinyl, dangling.

These things are stuck in fibrous, gilatinous material, like viscous slime... elastic webbing. There's a foul stench about the place too, and it's making my coat hairs stand on end. Like a curious foal, I've even placed my hoof flatly against a wall of the pale strands, and it took a remarkable amount of strength to yank the limb unstuck. I feel as though not everything down here is ancient. It seems as if only the armor is old, but everything else is fresh, also hauntingly smooth in texture. Even the ground beneath where I'm currently squatting feels almost warm to the touch. I think—

I have to stop writing. There's something here. I hear hoofsteps. Many, many hoofsteps..

-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

"H'sykylhym:" It's a very nondescript, harmless word. In a way, it's almost pleasing to the ear. That said, every phrase and bit of syntax in the alicorn tongue has its honey-laced qualities. The fact that it labels bleak things with such timeless beauty and elegance is what gives it its darker tone, reinforcing the long-reserved belief that the extremely horrible things in life must be packaged in delicate, almost resplendent fashion.

When one translates "H'sykylhym" into Equestrian basic, the equivalent phrase is "rock spiders." This too is seemingly harmless, save for the occasional arachnophobic listener who may be subjected to it.

When my mother exercised me and my talents in the slums of Canterlot, she had two choices to follow. She was either going to train me to be a great musician or an exceptional writer. I am so very glad that she went with the former, because music—as a language—conveys feelings and emotion and spiritual connection in such ways that writing has to stumble in order to catch up with its cumbersome technicalities.

If I could somehow encapsulate the "H'syklhym" that I encountered just a few hours ago in song, Vinyl, I would do so in a grating instrumental utilizing every dissonant string available to the cello. If nothing else, it would certainly convey in one cacophonous outburst the convoluted description that I am now about to write you.

When they arrived, I thought that there was a stampede of buffalo skeletons pouring down the tunnel directly behind me. The sound of their legs sounded exactly like countless cloven hooves against the walls of these rocky chambers. I broke into a gallop, fleeing wildly into the ringing noise that was consuming the subterranean world all around me.

I came upon a junction, the walls of which were as sickly porous as ever. I smelled the stench of rich, acidic decay, like years had layered a thick coat of vomit throught the entrails of this world. Utilizing the glow of Starswirl's Tome, I found a niche that my thundering heart convinced me was tiny enough for an earth pony such as myself to fit in alone. I was absolutely certain that I had to hide from whatever was gaining the distance behind me.

So, with much effort, I slid myself into the narrow partition. Once inside, I wrapped a length of the cloak around the tome, hiding Wh'lynsehaym's glow and casting myself into hideous darkness. That pitch black sensation did not last for long. To my shivering observation, the creatures themselves glowed: namely their eyes. A breath left me when I saw sets of six circles of pale green luminescence, each representing an individual head.

They were spiders—hideously large in size—and yet they weren't. When they hissed, it was with pony hisses. When they moaned, it was with pony moans. I watched as the junction ahead of me strobed with the lightning swaths cast from their multiple, glowing eyes. I saw grossly thin torsos attached to bulbous, hairy haunches. Eight sets of hooves—all of them equine—converged on a series of joints attached to soft bellies of translucent skin, through which I saw abdominable organs slowly digesting clumps of flesh and fractured bone matter.

There was a dozen of them. They herded just like ponies, only when their muzzles opened wide, barnacle-encrusted pedipalps slid out from their pallid lips. These oral appendages were used by the arachnequines to squabble amongst each other, fighting over strips of flesh and bone—some petrified, others raw. I saw strong femurs and thick pelvises, along with simian skulls barring intense overbites and fanged jaws. The H'sykylhym were fighting over the succulent remains of orcs: trolls and goblins and ogres who had undoubtedly been tossed down the very same pits I had willingly descended. Most likely they had been deposited there by the L'ysyhrym, or else teleported directly into the tunnels by the same magic used to banish monsters from all parts of Equestria everywhere. As fate would have it, these dismembered orcs did not make it all the way to the dark prison that was intended for them.

They were lucky.

I waited in the shadows, praying that the flashing lights from the rancid spider ponies' eyes did not illuminate me in my hiding spot. Oddly enough, their tense squabble within the junctioning corridors was a welcome reprieve. So long as their multiple hooves scratched and rattled against the walls of that place, I could no longer hear the intense ringing from beyond.

All good and horrible things come to an end, even if that ending takes eons. Eventually, the creatures tore off. The orcish remains were completely consumed, and I was cast once more into darkness, serenaded by the mad ringing from below.

A part of me wonders if this has been the bleak existence of the H'sykylhym for millennia. Were they always destined to become the scavengers of damnation? In the Tome of Ending, Starswirl desribes them as having been the willfully engineered abomination of the chaos lords, long before the prison was built to seal off our world from the realms beyond. In all of the eons since, these spidery beings have forged a life for themselves, subsisting on the most despicable yet unlikely sources of food imaginable. In a way, the very concept of it—albeit disgusting—glimmers with a tinge of nobility.

Deep down here, even on the edge of utter destination, harmony blossoms.

It's a shame I cannot remain a witness to it. I must now depart from this niche. The ringing is unbearably loud now. I suspect there is little distance left for me to go. I do not know whether to feel joyous or gloomy.

Wish me good fortune either way,
-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I want to bash my head against these rocks; the ringing is too unbearable. I thought that I would get used to it. I thought that my descent would allow me to adjust to the pressure of these constant reverberations. But that's simply impossible. I am mortal; there is no adjusting. There is only the descent, the death, the plunge. It's pulling at me, grabbing at my hooves, caressing my throbbing heart with each heated breath.

Yes, I do feel as if it's panting after me, almost as if it's a starved canine slobbering over a succulent piece of meat.. There shouldn't be wind down here, and yet I detect a breeze. The air circulates, spins heated cyclones around my twitching ears. I love this cloak, but Celestia help me if I don't feel like outright tossing it into the next crook or hole that I find.

My saddlebag and music cases feel like anvils affixed to my spine. Somehow, tossing them into the shadows wouldn't rid me of this exhaustion, for I would still have the weight of this damnable flesh, wrapped around me like a burlap carcass.

I do not belong here, Vinyl. Nopony belongs here, and yet this is where we all must go. I'm simply not going about it naturally, but I have no other choice. To live above, and apart, would mean stretching the madness out, would mean ignoring the ringing noise that is now seeping into my ears like blood, that is now a part of me, that has always been a part of me. Those impoverished years of foalhood in the streets of Canterlot were but a preview. I now see the accursed bookends of my life, and I can't write poetry about the meat in between. It is all too rancid... to sour... to spoiled.

Spoiled meat. Everything and everything. My hooves hurt. This ringing. It's getting even louder. Blessed Celestia, how is that possible? I'm writing just to try to ignore it, but I can't. Something's around the corner. Something wants to scream and laugh at me all at once. It's prayed on me all my life. It knows the names of every pony on every grave stone ever. I do not want to look at it, for I'm afraid I will see some infernal number that will encompass me, that will shrink my years into something the size of a thimble and swallow it in one gulp. We are so small, Vinyl. So small and fragile and full of tears and...

My goddess. I can't, but I must. I can't, but I absolutely have to.

Putting the pen down to go and investigate. For harmony's sake, I must concentrate. I must keep sane. I must.

In desperation,
-Octavia

























My dearly beloved Vinyl,

It is not ringing. It is screaming. It has never been ringing. It has always been screaming.

Gods and goddesses help me. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry for all I have ever done. I have wanted to sing. I have wanted to be harmonious. Truly, I have.

I am so exceedingly sorry. Please forgive me. Please forgive me, everypony.

-Octavia

















Blessed Vinyl,

It has taken some time, but I do believe that I have composed myself enough to write, or at least to write decently. How I often envy the telekinetic fortitude of unicorns, Vinyl. It is so very hard to keep this pen straight in the crook of my hoof, especially under all this bedlam—the thunderous noise of ages.

I stand on the last precipice of the winding passageways, opening up to a monumental cavern alit with pale light. The glow does not come from the rock walls or the glistening stalactites or the endless, pallid lengths of time-forgotten rock. The light is coming from the essences of ponies—screaming and flailing souls—who are currently blurring down past me from the limestone orifices spanning the walls and ceiling of this cacophonous domain.

From every corner of Equestria, from the expansive reaches of the mortal domain, they are drawn here, effluent in form and shimmering with agony, flung towards the epicenter of darkness by something far more infernal than gravity, empowered by pure malevolence and suffering. Their energy trails behind them like comet dust. They are dead, and yet they are filled to the brim with the gleaming vestiges of life. They have many eons ahead of them, the lengths of time it will take for the cosmic forces to consume what is left of their beings, to eat them whole and devour their screams.

When they first came, I thought it was the H'sykylhym clawing in pursuit of me. I soon realized differently: the rock spiders couldn't be capable of making these noises. They are animated by something far more stale than life; they do not know pain.

This—all of this is pain; all of this is inevitability. All of this is our future.

Five years of scouring the world, and by the power of Starswirl, I have finally arrived.

I disrobe of my cloak and set down my belongings. Opening the larger of the two cases, I produce my cello and stand upon the brink of eternity. The streaking forms of descending equines blur past me in a river of suffering, illuminating my view of the abyss, but they are not my audience.

I bring the bow to the cello strings. I play steadily, my shivering hooves finally relaxing as I submerge myself in the depths of my craft. The sound that I produce is delicious, and it parts the river of the dead as I cast my notes into the throat of desolation.

I play the song, Vinyl. I play your Symphony. I listen as the chords rise and fall, until I reach the abrupt cutoff point.

My heart falls, for I hear nothing further. The end remains the end. Your Symphony is still unfinished.

That is how I know that I must take the plunge. I am ready, my dearest Vinyl. I am ready to bring your music into the depths of misery.

Give me strength,
-Octavia

















My Dear Vinyl,

One does not take the final plunge without paying a price. There is a reason for why there are so many abominable guardians who patrol the diseased mouth of this place. The darkness below is meant for the dead and the damned: those who have flourished in life and those who have been banished from it.

I am the one true blight, the thing that festers in this insidious hovel. I do not belong, and yet I keep trotting forward, marching towards the narcrotic gates that border the neverending beyond. The stone here is smooth, polished by the sheer echo of screams over countless centuries. Even now, the buried landscape shimmers from the river of shrieking spirits soaring above me. Small, black skittering things spread to avoid my plodding hoofsteps. I am not what they are meant to feed on; I am not the succulent morsel of this terrestrial abdomen.

In the penumbra of the dead spirits' glow, I pause to listen. The voices of the screams are disparate and fleeting; I struggle to scavenge something intelligible from the continuous roar of agonized pleas and undulating yelps of confusion. What I do hear is multiple languages, many of them deader than the others. Not all of these souls belong to modern day. Time has no sway over the currents of the dead. Those swirling above me are from the past and the future as much as from ponies who are dying right now. Through time and space, they have converged on this spot, this bleak destination of destinations, fueled by a force of nature imposed upon them—imposed upon us all—by an act of mercy that was simultaneously a killing blow.

Curious, I pause to glance at the Tome of Ending. The pale shard that is Wh'lynsehaym's horn shimmers in a rhythmic pulse, matching the speed at which the spirits blur past me overhead. Even beyond his own destruction, the Star Father of all alicorns is empowering the flow of equestrian souls. I can't imagine that this mechanization was part of his initial purpose, but I also doubt that he—or any of the other alicorns who are long gone and buried—ever anticipated the consequences of their infernal engineering.

The universe's greatest curses were always blessings in the making.

I hear another set of screams, but somehow they are far different than the tumultuous bellowing of ponies around me. I gaze upwards at the wall of the cavern, just above the amber-glowing edge ahead of me. Several bodies tumble out of a gaping tunnel. They roll downhill like loose lumber. Upon landing, they immediately stand up straight. They are bipedal beings, orcish abominations whose first impulse upon arriving here is to squabble and fight with one another. No doubt they were teleported here by Celestia, Cadance, or some other monarch in an attempt to cleanse the countryside of monsters. Just like the devoured bodies I saw in the mandibles of the H'sykylhym above, their teleportation has avoided the prison. They too are lucky.

I watch as they pause in their struggle, gawking at the shimmering flight of ponies above them. It's as if they've never seen a soul before, much less comprehended the concept of one in all of their dastardly years of pillaging and raping Equestrian villages. For the first time in their paltry lives, these trolls and ogres are experiencing fear, and it will soon be the last sensation they'll ever know.

The cavern rumbles. A huge, bass roar explodes across the subterranean domain. The force of the volume is enough to throw me off my hooves; it practically crushes the skulls of the orcs far away. I watch fitfully as those still with the strength to stand are consumed by a horrendous, three-fold shadow looming over them. Six red eyes shimmer like hot coals in the inky darkness. Then—in a flash of soul-bred lightning—three sets of jaws open, wide and glistening.

Thunder echoes across the depths, followed by the screams of the orcish morsels below. In swift order, the writhing creatures' bodies are reduced to paste. Gigantic paws pin a few of the writhing stragglers to the stone while their shrieking siblings are thrown down a trifecta of mangy gullets. Soon, all of the trollish miscreants are devoured, and the guardian of the end roars once more, savoring the succulent taste of living meat.

Cerberus is here. I must make swift with one of Starswirl's spells, or else this entry may be my last.

I endeavor to write to you from beyond the veil,
-Octavia

















Dearest Vinyl,

I have arrived.

It took immeasurable toil and loss of blood, but I have successfully passed the guardian of the end, and I am alive.

I am alive—and for once that holds a singularly fantastical meaning. It counts for something here that it never did in the surface world. Even now, I find it difficult to write, for the light is near blinding: the glow of my own blood.

As soon as Cerberus consumed the orcish victims of banishment, his heads turned towards me. I knew that it would have been only a matter of time before the otherworldly canine pounced upon my figure, rendering me to the same fate as the trolls and ogres that were now digesting in his stomachs.

As his pounding paws broke the flow of screaming souls above, I knelt down and flipped through the pages of the Tome of Ending, until I came upon the copper sheets where Starswirl's spells were located. There—in a fitful glance—I came upon a purposefully creased page where I had bookmarked the "spell of life-anchored animation." I had prepared well for this moment, and with Cerberus' approach turning into a howling charge, I had only a few seconds to spare.

In swift order, I produced the silken sheets from my saddlebag. Unfolding them, I exposed my carefully preserved mane and tail hair. Next, I ripped the copper sheet containing the "spell of life-anchored animation" and folded it tightly over the brown fibers that I had shaved from my body far back in Masada.

What was needed was the final ingredient. I unfolded the bandage from my left forelimb and pressed the blade to my fresh wound. It took little effort to invite blood to the surface of my flesh this time, but the process pained me nonetheless. Once a liberal drop came loose, I applied it to the fleshen sheet of enchanted manuscript that was bundled around my mane hair. Wh'lynsehaym's horn glowed from the Tome of Ending, and I watched in amazement as the page with the "animation" spell came to life.

It unfolded and expanded, taking on an equine shape. Soon, the rune-etched parchment of ancient flesh was sporting my own mane and tail. It chose a direction at random and lurched forward with mechanical purpose.

By the time Cerberus approached, its attention was stolen three-fold. I watched as the massive creature became encumbered with animalistic confusion, its three sets of crimson eyes narrowing on the lumbering golem that Starswirl's magic and my life-energy had afforded. Soon, the equine effigy with my tail hair was trotting under the end guardian's very limbs. Cerberus took a heated breath, its back hairs bristling, and it thrusted all three mouths forward. The triad of jaws converged on the pony-shape, tearing it to shreds. The cavern filled with the fitful gurgling sounds of all heads fighting for a larger share of the "meat."

I wasn't watching at this point. I was running, galloping straight towards the edge of the abyss. With the immortal canine distracted, I had an uninterrupted path to the bottomless pit beyond. The shrieking spirits were flying closer by me now, preparing for their final descent. I was preparing too.

When I reached the edge, my breath was taken from me. Deep down in the infinite blackness, set apart from the onyx currents of endlessness, I saw a great glowing ball of lights—amber and flickering, as if fed by a heap of mortal torches. That was not my destination, but I knew that it was a necessary juncture before I came upon the infernal prison. I had very little time to comprehend the fact that I was about to become the first living pony to have willfully made this plunge well before her time. I still had blood inside of me, and that currently had one purpose and one purpose alone.

I opened the Tome of Ending once again. I flipped to the copper sheets until I found Starswirl's "spell of effluent wings." With my left forelimb still bleeding, I flung it into the book and closed the Tome around it. My wound stung as magic coursed through and around me. I hissed, feeling as if electric bolts were shooting out of my every joint. When I plunged, it was with gentle teetering, as if I was a foal tilting over into the deep end of a pool.

I did not plummet; I floated, drifting slowly down into fluidic darkness. I coasted along the shooting stars of agonized spirits who were drawn faster into the abyss than my flesh and bones possibly could. As selfish as it is to write, my descent had a torturous quality all of its own. I shivered with anxiety during the entire flight, imagining the horror that would encapsulate me if I was to somehow miss my target—if I was to tragically drift well beyond the amber-lit platforms that served as the summit of the prison to end all prisons.

My panicked thoughts were swiftly replaced by a dark sense of wonder, for it was then that my mortal eyes finally took notice of it. With blacker-than-black motions, the darkness split apart, and I saw the shadow of an immense structure, rotating and grinding clockwise beneath me.

The size of it was unbelievably large, as though an onyx continent was swirling, spinning, drilling deeper into the abyss. And beneath this lifeless plateau, arranged in corkscrew fashion, was another continent—and then another beneath it. Ultimately, all five chambers of the machine became evident, bigger than the vacuum in the center of this world could possibly allow, and yet they constantly pierced a seamless veil, where the junction of this realm formed frictious contact with the next.

That was when I realized that I had finally surpassed Feathermane. The illustration that Starswirl had blindly drawn in the sand outside the western walls of Masada were no longer a wind-blown phantom, but it was real to me, as real as any paradox could be to a fragile, shattered soul. I almost wished that I could go blind too, but all I could do was drift towards the machine, for I was now anchored to it, much like the souls screaming past me.

I was damned.

My quivering sight was consumed by flickering lights, and I realized that I was coming close to the platforms above the machine. I saw an endless urban sprawl of demonically constructed buildings, shantytowns, shacks and lean-tos: all struggling and squabbling to consume the infinitesimal property available to them upon the summit of this infernal prison in the middle of eternal desolation. I know better than to expect other ponies here. This is the home of the banished, the only orc town with the actual audacity to exist in this universe, and it is here within the peaks of purgatory, far away from the harmonic fields and sunlight of Equestria, that it lingers in decrepit glory.

When I finally landed—atop a splintery stretch of decayed wood nailed to a stretch of rusted metal—I fell over on my side. I instantly whimpered, for I felt as though my body weighed several tons. It was more than the fact that Starswirl's "spell of effluent wings" had dissipated; I was a single mortal pony in the valley of the damned. I drew my belongings and music cases closer to my cloaked form. I couldn't let the disorientation of my hectic arrival distract me. There were festering orcs and creatures here, the cream of the crop of Equestria's banished population, and if I stayed in one place I would not remain this heavy—or this mortal—for very long.

Before I set off for a hiding place, I had to stop and pause. A bright glow was illuminating my cloaked features, and this time it was neither the cyclone of souls or the horn of
Wh'lynsehaym. I looked at myself, and my violet eyes eventually wandered to my left hoof. I was bleeding, and the blood was glowing. It shimmered with a bright crimson light as my life energy shone like a beacon in that damnable place beyond the veil.

I gasped, and instantly I threw my cloak off. I glanced down at my haunches, for I already knew what would come next.

Layer by layer, my cutie mark was dissolving. I watched as the purple clef pealed away—ribboning off from my now blank flanks—so that it gathered in the air and split apart like a flock of fluttering butterflies. The glowing stream lifted up out of the abyss, where it joined a coalescing spiral of similar ribbons as every cutie mark of every pony soul who had entered this domain was stripped from their essence.

And that is how the reality of the moment came to me, that I had reached the point of no return.

I am now a resident of Tartarus, my beloved Vinyl. There is no going back. There is only a Symphony, a broken song, and I must complete it.

With adoration,
-Your Octavia


















Beloved Vinyl,

The ringing is unbearable, but I think I'm beginning to understand it. It is the new silence against which the screams hold precedent. In the realm of Tartarus, there can be no absence of noise. This is the true center of the universe, the place where all souls are engineered to gravitate towards. There is no rest, no stillness. Everything collapses, coalesces, and churns into an ethereal pulp. This is the crucible of all pain and misery, and the only way to end the torture is to ignore it, and the only way to ignore it is to fall asleep.

My dearest Vinyl, I have plunged myself into the depths of this cosmic landfill. I must hear beyond the ringing noise and the perpetual screams. I must listen for a hint of a continuation—an added note or two to your symphony.

And until your song is complete, I cannot rest. I cannot sleep.

It pains me to no-end that I've yet another hurdle before I can traverse the first of the infernal machine's five chambers, for lying atop the mammoth prison is yet another penitentiary altogether, acting as a blighted roadblock between myself and the destiny beneath. Scholars and theologians have predicted the existence of this decrepit place, calling it the "last bastion of orcish resolve." Starswirl the Bearded wrote about it in the Tome of Ending, referring to it as "Pandemonium, the Demon City." Personally, I like to call it damn annoying.

Throughout the centuries, millennia, and eons of Equestrian civilization, there have been foul creatures: orcs, trolls, goblins, ogres, and all manners of impish squalor. Unlike the behemoth monsters spawned by the chaos lords of old, these orcish fiends have been susceptible to magic spells—both ordinary and regal. As a result, the summit of Tartarus has been the destination of countless banishments, performed over the passing ages, with the intent of forcefully relocating these sentient creatures permanently away from the vulnerable landscape of ponydom.

It would appear that, over the years, these ill-fated creatures have constructed a remarkable albeit ramshackled metropolis within the depths of the world's abyss, using the topmost chamber of Tartarus as a foundation. I've come to fully understand this, for I have noticed the currents of equine souls revolving ever so slowly above us. Tartarus is forever swiveling counter-clockwise, and Pandemonium is likewise twirling in an icy fashion.

How they've managed to construct such a series of buildings was a mystery to me, and then I took a closer look at the rooftops and platforms across which I was stumbling. Most if not every single plank of material has served a secondary purpose in its previous life. I see sheets of rusted metal, circular shields, swords and scabbards, pike handles, spears, the battered skin of iron bulwarks, and loops upon loops upon loops of chains. Most orcs were banished in the middle of attacking or pillaging pony villages. Undoubtedly, when they were teleported to the abyss beyond Ceberus' vigil, their weapons and armor followed them. As the millennia wore on, so did the piles of junk that once fueled their anger and resolve upon the surface world. Pandemonium is quite literally the sum of so much murder and war, for the very tools of such have now formed awkward shanty towns replete with narrow alleyways and rickety balconies and meandering courtyards. Every other step is perilous, for one risks slicing one's limb on a jutting piece of armor or the edge of an exposed blade or the spokes of a blood-stained spike.

The orcs do not live here; they die here, slowly being consumed by pain and rage over the remaining vestiges of their pitifully spawned lives. Even now, as I sit in a cold, dark corner of an abandoned lean-to, I hear them squabbling and fighting with one another. Every other word is an obscenity, and the exclamations between those are filled with bitterness and venomous anger.

How pitiable and bleak an existence it must be for these monsters, to have been born of malice and to be destined for destruction. I know that alicorns such as Celestia and Cadance have endeavored time and time again to appeal to these creatures on the surface, to bring light and harmony to their existence in hopes that they might become sane beings with whom Equestrians can coeexist. But the sad fact of life is that there are many things that are damned well before they were even born, otherwise such banishment spells would not have a reason to exist in the first place.

I wonder what Celestia would think—I wonder what Princess Twilight Sparkle and all the other educated souls of our world would think—if they were to discover that it was not just the orcs and trolls who were damned before birth.

But it is all of us. We are all damned, Vinyl. We are all cursed to come here eventually. I wish I had been able to read Starswirl's Tome of Ending sooner. I wish I had the true knowledge of everything before all of this started.

And I wish—more than anything—that I could have shared that knowledge with you before it came to this.
-Octavia











Dear Vinyl,

Pandemonium will never sleep, and that is how I know it will never die. Even if the orcs and goblins and ogres all around me were to finally slay each other overnight, the streets would simply fill back up as soon as another batch of ugly creatures fell into the filthy avenues to populate the districts once again with their raucous behavior and vile hatred.

How does one sleep upon the summit of Hell? It is impossible. I know, for I have tried. I can't tell whether it's the insidious nature of this place or if something about me has intrinsically changed.

I can't stop lifting the cloak to look at my flank. No matter how many times I glance at my haunches, the purple treble clef does not return to my gray coat. In truth, I was never too fond of my cutie mark. Most fillies at a young age put a great deal of weight on the transformation, celebrating with their friends, holding cutesie-neara's and the like. I was not a pony who gave it much of a thought. It's probably because, on the evening that my cutie mark came to me, I was too busy curled up on a bed in the upstairs loft of my foster parents' home, sobbing into the shadows of night, clinging to what little vestiges I had of my dying mother's phantom scent.

My talent only came to me because my mother had to leave me. In a way, playing music has been as natural as gravity, as natural as dying, as natural as falling down here to Tartarus.

So here I am, shivering in the shadow of existence's fate, and all of the tears have dried up. I don't have anypony to share my sobs with. I only have words, and it is my joy—my meaning in existence—to share them with you.

I hear the shuffling of feet. The air stinks with the flesh of orcs. I must stop writing and hide, Vinyl. If they find me—if they take away my mortal existence here, on this side of the veil—I do not know if I will emerge as an equine spirit capable of finishing her journey.

I can't allow them to see me. If I fail, and I find myself in their rancid clutches, I'll make your name the last thing that I scream.

With love,
-Octavia










Blessed Vinyl,

I have managed to elude the orcs' attention. This has been no easy feat; my forelimbs throb painfully as a result.

After one or two close scrapes with the bipedal monsters, I realized that I could not rely on ordinary stealth alone to evade capture. After all, I am not exactly traveling light. I have a cello case and a violin case with me; I cannot afford to lose either—not yet. On top of that, my satchel full of tools and the Tome of Ending have made this journey rather cumbersome from the start. I had to find another way to mask my presence here until I discover a descending route to the actual summit of Tartarus.

What I decided upon was a particular spell within the copper sheets of Starswirl's book. Quite similar to the "spell of harmonic equilibrium" that I used to escape the sonic reach of the L'ysyhrym high above, this new encantation, labeled the "spell of harmonic resonance," performs almost the exact opposite. Rather than eliminating all evidence of my spiritual weight within the fabric of universal leylines, it instead broadcasts phantom echoes of myself in every direction at once. Thus, instead of a cloak effect, the spell's power gives off a distraction.

I first utilized this not that long after my last frantically scribbled letter to you. Less than ten minutes after writing, I had performed the spell, and every orc within the vicinity of me was thrown into feverish confusion and dismay. At first, they appeared utterly perplexed, but then a great panic overwhelmed them. They ran away from the balcony upon which I was perched, descending into the lower platforms where they started banging on walls and metal shingles, shouting obscenities as they demanded that the elusive stranger "show itself."

While this might sound like a fortuitous situation, I can only wish that the "spell of harmonic resonance" was as easy to perform. Since I am dealing with more common sensory elements than the leylines that threw off the L'ysyhrym, I must channel the power of the spell into the space of the underworld around me. As fanciful as this may seem, it quite literally involves producing a sensory element that can overwhelm those capable of observing me. Since I do not possess the ability to produce a shining beacon or an intimidating scent, I have to resort to something in line with my own talents.

Each time I do the spell, I open my cello case, produce my bow, and play an instrumental into the hellscape. It is as though the rooftop of Tartarus has become a concert hall, and yet all ears who hear my strings... don't hear them, for the "harmonic resonance" spell sends every orc stumbling in confusion. I can't say that I expected to perform a symphony where my audience would willingly run away, but it doesn't bother me one bit—not here, at least.

However, just like with all the other spells, an earth pony such as myself must use her own blood as a catalyst. I accomplish this through no simple feat: cutting my flesh until enough droplets of blood form that can activate the runes etched into Starswirl's book.

I don't wish to alarm you, Vinyl, but I have already made no less than three incisions into my left forelimb. They are thin cuts, granted, and quite easy and simple to clean. But nothing changes the fact that they sting terribly, and Pandemonium isn't exactly the most sterile place in the underworld.

It must sound terribly odd to speak of infections and minor injuries down here. However, the fact is, I am still mortal and I can still die. I know this, because the orcs around here qualify just as much. Unlike the cyclonic current of wailing equine souls above and around us, the populace of Pandemonium did not arrive here by passing through the mortal coil. They are refugees of mortality, flung here by spellcasters who saw them as nothing more than mere rubbish. If I possessed orc blood, I surely would have utilized such a transportation spell to make my journey here all the swifter, but even then I wouldn't have had the fortune of finding Starswirl's Tome in Masada and learned what I needed to know in order to finish my sojourn.

The orcs here die. Constantly. I've seen hordes of the monsters gather around, drooling in bloodlust as new batches of ogre and trollkind fall to the rooftops of this place. Those who are injured upon arrival are made the target of gruesome sport, with several of their sophomoric brethren happily kicking and flailing and pummeling their flesh until they gargle up their own blood. Those who are well enough to stand, trembling on their own two feet, are thrown into chains, forced to endure years of hardship and slavery until they can "earn" the right to march freely through these decrepit streets of misery, having pledged their honor to one demonic gang or another.

It's hard for me to not pity these creatures, Vinyl, as detestable and cruel as they have been to the legacy of equine civilization. After all, they are equal parts of the machine of death, the grand prison that is collecting all agony into its cold pumping heart and channeling it ceaselessly into the black abyss below. I wonder where their souls go—if they even have any whatsoever. Do they ever end? And, if they do, does that make these orcs—these vile, selfish cockroaches of existence—far luckier than ponies like you and I?

But then I remember a keen observation that I had made, something that reminds me of the glory that ponies still have to hold onto and treasure.

We do not have the same blood, orcs and I. I've seen them smash the brains open of their fallen brothers and newly-arrived neighbors. I have seen bowels spilled open in the sick amber light of Pandemonium's lit spires. The blood of orcs does not glow in the dark.

Mine does. I am a piece of equine life, still imbued with Equestrian spirit. Here, beyond the veil that Cerberus guards, I am precious; I am special. Every time I slice myself open to gain fuel for Starswirl's spells, every time I so much as spill a drop of myself to evade the enemy, it sparkles with effluent life. It is a deep crimson glow, like the dim luminescence of a photographer's darkroom or the scarelt bulbs of a Hearth's Warming tree.

Here in the destitute depths of Ponymonium, I've not had the liberty to admire such luminescence. With bandages, gauze, and the folds of my cloak, I have endeavored whole-heartedly to hide the light burning outward from my being. But, with each mile that I cross, with each platform that I plunge past to find a way out of this demoniacal city, the task has gotten harder and harder. I cannot proceed without cutting myself more, and it becomes increasingly difficult to hide my shimmering essence, to hide the fact that I have a soul.

I am alive, and right now that is my biggest weakness. I must keep writing, Vinyl, or else I may lose what little strength I have left. I don't wish to lose you.

In faith,
-your Octavia




















My Beloved Vinyl,

Hours ago, I heard screaming, and it didn't belong to an orc.

I had been sneaking my way down the depths of Pandemonium, descending one wretched level at a time, avoiding droves of murderous orcish packs and ogre gangs with the aid of blood, music, and Starswirl's spells, when I first heard the shrieking sound.

I first imagined that the creatures here had ensnared a pony soul. It's not exactly an inaccurate assumption. On the first hour I arrived on the rooftops of Pandemonium, I had witnessed equine spirits falling loose from the cyclonic current above, landing in the streets only to be relentlessly butchered by orcs who were lying in wait for them. I simply didn't write to you about it, Vinyl. I couldn't.

The whole scenario was detestible. I'm still recovering from the sight of the ponies' effluent shapes being torn apart and reformed just to be massacred again. Goddess knows how long they were ripped to shreds and reassembled, with only trolls and goblins to receive their anguished cries, until the gravity of Tartarus caught them again and they were once more thrown into the river of death spiraling into the abyss.

Their screams were swift things—as bleak as their awkward passage through this demonic detour. The screaming that I had been been hearing for the past few hours was another thing altogether. In another place and in another time, the sound would be relatively innocuous, like that of an infant after having bashed its knee. Chillingly enough, the sound reminded me of trips through the Ponyville maternity ward that you and I used to take when we once mused the thought of adopting a foal of our own.

Perhaps it was that memory that urged me forward, that made me trot through the shadowed alleways adjacent to my predestined path. There was no reason for why I made the detour that I did. My destination was straight down, deeper into the abyss. Too much was at stake to risk it on fruitless ventures through this orcish ghetto.

And yet, I marched on, fueled by horrific sounds and the scent of misery. If I blinked, Vinyl, I could very well see myself as a young filly trotting her way home through the garbage-strewn lower streets of Canterlot. I heard the screams, still, but they were changing in pitch. They sounded like cats starving in the darkness. I wanted to vomit instantly, but there was no food in my stomach. I had no more desire to eat than I did to sleep. The flesh was just an attachment to the soul, and it did what the soul wanted. Right then, the soul wanted answers, to visualize the source beyond the anguished wails.

I found an enclosure built out of rusted metal shingles. There, a series of stoves rested before me, all constructed out of former torsos of orcish armor. A fat ogre was positioned at the end of the hovel, presumably an engineer, for he was utilizing his fat limbs in turning dials, valves, and other ingeniously fabricated tools that channeled heat and flame from the stoves and into the various corners of Pandemonium. It hadn't occurred to me until then, but I was greatly curious over just what was powering the decrepit city, what was giving it light and animation and heat within the abyss of ages.

I stood silently in the shadows, waiting for the ogre to leave so that I might inspect things closer. Thankfully, I didn't have to perform the "spell of harmonic resonance." He had stumbled off, ambling down an opposite corridor to answer a fellow orc's cry. While he was gone, I trotted into the space before the stoves, dragging my music cases with me. The screaming was deaffening at that point. I approached the stoves, urged forward by curiosity and horror all at once. I looped a fold of the brown cloak over my right forelimb and used it to protect myself form the heat as I pulled at the handle of one of the stove's lids.

As soon as it opened, I heard the ringing sound in my ears, vibrating through my teeth. Mother lay dying in bed, the dim light of morning highlighting the degree to which her eyes had turned jaded. Kittens mewled in fear and hunger, silenced suddenly as if a shroud had washed over their tiny, tiny eyes. Every horrible memory that I had ever experienced came rocketing through my mind, as if in a desperate bid to overwhelm what I was currently witnessing. They very nearly failed.

There were foals in there, Vinyl, tiny infants curled nose-to-tail within the blazing wombs of those stoves. They burned with the intensity of shooting stars. At a loss for breath, I gazed intently, desperate to see the source of the fuel that was consuming them—until I realized that they were the fuel.

Here in the cold abyss, between Tartarus and the threshhold of dying, the spirits of stillborn foals are brimming with dense, untapped life energy. They are incapable of experiencing joy, and yet they are frozen fetuses, perpetually bound to the innocent forces that engineered them upon the crest of existence. Their screams are their agony, and their agony will last far longer than you or I. It lights up the wretched heart of Pandemonium like a furnace, giving demons artificial daylight to commit murder by.

You might wonder why I didn't free them, Vinyl, why I didn't hide them under the folds of my cloak and find an edge of the city so that I may toss them into the merciful ether. But, if you think at all like I do after all these years, my love, then you must have come to the same conclusion that I have.

These unborn souls will burn out far more swiftly here than they ever will in the prison chambers of Tartarus. They'll sleep far sooner if I just leave them be.

And so that's what I did, marching away from that infernal engine room with all my nightmares thrown behind me. Only, now, I have more than my blood and my scent to mask. I have my tears.

I love you so much,
-Octavia

















Dearest Vinyl,

I was barely six winters old when the ringing in my ears began, when I would wake up from my sleep, screaming. It was before I found my talent, before my mother died, before I could tell apart the multitudinous shades of misery that had encompassed my young life, shades that I had once been blind to, until one week in summer.

Every poor family in the lower streets of Canterlot lacked many things. They lacked money. They lacked food. They lacked heat and they lacked a decent shelter. But there was one thing that every family, no matter how impoverished, always had.

Cats were an abundance in lower Canterlot. They sprouted out of every niche in the dark alleys. They hung out in droves along the outer sidewalks and walls, stealing every swath of sunlight that would sweep through the districts at noonday. Most of them were strays; some of them were even feral. For one reason or another, though, they were still our greatest ally, and each individual one of those feline souls had a separate family it clung to with utter devotion.

Our street had nine cats when I was six years old, and of the nine, one in particular must have considered itself ours, because it stayed by our hovel every night, sometimes even cuddling up to my mother and I. Her name was Kathryn, not a name that I chose. That was back when my mother still had the strength and poetic resolve to attribute beauty to this world.

I loved Kathryn. I loved the way her eyes shone in the middle of the night. Most fillies my age were scared of nocturnal creatures; I felt differently. Kathryn was our watcher. She guarded us from rats and other vermin; every other family dealt with a constant barrage of fleas, but not us. Kathryn stuck to my mother and I with such loyalty that it dazzled me. I would remember my mother commenting between coughing fits that our cat loved us more than my father. I found that both silly and strange, but it didn't matter anymore once I had gotten a chance to pet Kathryn and tell her how happy I was to have her around.

One summer, the summer when I was six, Kathryn started to gain weight. I was worried that maybe she was eating too much, and I would comment to mother about it. Every time, my mother would avoid the topic. Her eyes—which were still healthy—started to develop a pale sheen, an expression that was both mirthful and melancholic all at once. I was confused, until one particular night when my youthful attention was utterly stolen.

Kathryn gave birth to a litter of kittens, nearly seven in all. It was the most heavenly thing I had ever witnessed. Mother rolled out a towel for her to make a nest in, and I watched in awe as these seven tiny bundles of life curled up to Kathryn's belly to nurse. I had asked mother to call some of the local fillies so that they too could see this miracle that had taken place. But, as the hours rolled by, no other pony came. That was the first time I felt true unease. We lived in such poverty and squalor, and here we had something joyful for once. Who wouldn't want to celebrate this gift of life, this most precious of singular instances?

But then, as the night wore on, I started to understand. Of the seven kittens that had been born before my very eyes, only six of them remained stirring. One had fallen still; not even its tiny tail was capable of twitching anymore. Before my mother could protest, I reached a small hoof in and touched its furry coat. It felt colder than a windowpane in January. What sort of deep sleep was this? I asked my mother, but she didn't have to answer me; another kitten had likewise turned still.

In the next forty-eight hours that followed, three more kittens died. I know this, for I did not leave Kathryn and her litter, not even to eat—as if we had that much food to begin with. I watched each of the precious little things as they stopped moving, as their starving cries crumbled to dry gasps in their choked throat. They breathed their last breaths in soft, trembling shivers, sliding away from the fountain of life in as quiet a splash as they made when they first entered. I could only count their passing by number, for I hadn't named them. They all died so rapidly and unexpectedly that I soon realized that the endeavor was fruitless. They were meat; and you didn't name meat.

I remember the look on my mother's face. She used to smile at me in those days, the years when she first started teaching me music, when she coached me into utilizing my innate talents. That summer was the summer that her smile died; it passed away along with those kittens, and soon the gates of death would leech the rest of the warmth from her, year after year, until she could applaud my music no longer.

I didn't know anything yet. All I knew was tears, tears of confusion. How cruel could life be that such precious and beautiful things would be born solely for the sake of dying so pathetically, as if they were dead long before birth to begin with? Existence had suddenly become a machine for me, carelessly churning warm masterpieces from one end of the furnace to another. Surely it was not a harmonious world that could allow this, that could reward death and life with equal scores, as if it was all the same infernal thing.

Two kittens survived the initial onslaught of starvation and malnourishment, but not for long. One of them couldn't summon the strength to walk like its much healthier sibling. I was dismayed, for I had almost concocted a name for it. I was going to name it "Chocolate," like the things I saw in store windows that my mother said I'd someday be able to eat once I made a name for myself with music.

Chocolate lived long enough for his eyes to open, which was the worse part. I gazed upon his confused and pained face as we made eye contact. Just like that, I knew for a fact that he had a soul, just like each and every one of his dead siblings had spirits. That's what made the coming week all the more tragic, as I struggled and endeavored to feed him, to give him reasons to live, and yet his body rejected every single gesture. I went to sleep one night with Chocolate nestled in my forelimbs. When I woke the next morning, it felt like I was hugging an ice pack.

I got mother's attention, but I had very little to say. I was a sobbing mess. I suppose I still had yet to wake to the tragedies of life. Mother must have known this, because the amount of ceremony that followed was downright ridiculous. She gave me a very delicate speech about the tenuous balance of life, about the continuous, invisible war between the forces of harmony and the discordant whims of chaos, and how the struggle between good and evil still manages to wreak havoc on the innocence that abounds in the surface world.

There was no place to bury Chocolate, but this didn't stop mother from attempting a ritualistic service of sorts. First, I watched as she bathed Chocolate's body under a rusted spicket, dousing the kitten's coat and cleansing it of all filth and parasites. She then wrapped his fragile little form in a lime-green washcloth. While it was still sunny out, mother took me by the hoof and guided me out into the middle streets of Canterlot, the first time she did so since buying me my first violin.

In the far edges of the decrepit alleys, we found a series of dumpsters. The place was rank with the smell of Canterlot's filth, but I could hardly notice from an entire morning of sobbing. Mother opened a dumpster and stood beside it with me. I was allowed to cradle Chocolate's wrapped-up body one last time as mother said a prayer of sorts. She sounded for a brief moment like a minister of the Harmonic Assembly. I listened as she said something poetic, entreating the invisible powers beyond, the positive energy that was thrown into motion by ancient alicorns before the dawn of time. She prayed that Chocolate's spirit might find its way to "paradise," that he would experience the joy of life that was otherwise robbed of him.

I remember it all sounding very strange. I trusted and loved my mother, but this excessive pageantry was doing nothing to change the fact that something very precious had died, and it would never, ever come back.

Her prayer ended, and she gestured gently for Chocolate's body. I reluctantly gave him up; I'd have much easier given her a leg or an ear. Then, after a final murmur launched at the heavens, mother tossed the kitten's body into the dumpster. What happened next was so sickeningly hilarious that it almost made her collapse. Quite likely, mother had expected the dumpster to be half full; it wasn't. Chocolate's body struck pure metal like a missile, and the bass reverbations from the dumpster sent an awful ringing through my ears, like the percussion of heavy drums in bombastic symphony.

It utterly shattered whatever fragile pretense had been constructed by the flimsy prayer my mother had so devotedly given in the first place. The ringing followed us home, nipping at our fetlocks like a shadowy pack of timber wolves. At night, the ringing filled my ears, and I remember begging, crying, sobbing for it to go away. I tried waking my mother, but she was done with it, done with the misery, done with me.

I am twenty-five years old, and that ringing has not gone away. I close my eyes, and I expect to see Chocolate's limp body in my arms when I awake, wondering if I too may be as dead as the thing I once loved, as everything I had ever once pretended to believe in. My dreams have constantly been haunted by the writhing, squirming effigies of soft things upon the penumbra of annihilation. I hear the cries of tiny kittens, their mewling voices growing more and more shaky as the infinite darkness consumes them one by one.

I once told you about it—about the dreams, about the ringing in my ears, about the dumpster and the smell of garbage and the smell of all life rotting in those streets along with my innocence and my mother. I told you about a horrifying thought, Vinyl, a thought that I had once believed in, a thought that used to define me in the days before I met you: that the only reason precious things exist is so that they can be destroyed.

Here in Pandemonium, upon the edge of Tartarus, I finally understand the essence of suffering. We are all precious things, and we all exist to suffer. That is the power of Hell, what gives it its fuel and animation, for we are all destined to come here, Vinyl. I wish that it wasn't true. I wish I could lie to you, as my mother used to lie to me and herself, by claiming that there is some sort of "paradise" that all ponies can enjoy when death consumes us, but that is not the case. There is only one destination for the souls of all that has lived and died, and it is anchored to Tartarus, bound by its grinding pain and agony.

I have read the words of Starswirl the Bearded, the infernal testimony of he who has marched into desolation and come back to share a truth with the world so miserable that they rejected him, just as his eyes forever rejected the light, for to ingest knowledge of the endless ending is to go mad and be mad. And still, that madness was the only clarity he could possess, and I've yet to understand what it was about such hidden sight that managed to drag him back into the depths, that is managing to drag me.

Perhaps I too have been mad, but if that's so, the insanity was born inside me long ago; I only had the wherewithawal to cling to it then. I heard it in the ringing noise between my mother's wheezing breaths. I heard it in the wretched tonality of cats wailing and shrieking in the darkness. They were sentinels to an unseen horror that hunted me in my childhood, that struck when I wasn't looking—and slew my mother instead.

I clung to her in the morning hours, in the dim light that bounced off her glazed eyes, reflecting me like cold marbles at the bottom of a drowning well. There was such great blackness in her irises, and when her mouth opened to give off a last breath, I heard a ringing to the final wheeze, much like the reverberation of that dumpster, much like the thunderous drums that powers the five gargantuan chambers of Tartarus now spinning counter-clockwise beneath me.

When mother died, she knew where she was going, and though she didn't mean to, her eyes told me that I too would follow her there someday, that each and every one of us would make our final descent into suffering at the end of all things, because most of us die with our energy left untapped—like the fetuses burning in the stoves of orcish parasites—for Hell exists to be the boiler room of this floundering universe, and all energy has to go somewhere, has to be consumed, has to be broken apart and shifted down the tiny capillaries of least resistance, and even if it doesn't take an eternity to break us down to our threadbare, screaming parts, it still takes an indescribably long time.

Hell is a necessity, Vinyl. If it didn't exist, life itself wouldn't exist. There is more to the machine than what lies beneath the surface, than just what Cerberus guards. We all have to do our time in the prison of ages, just as we are all given time on the surface world. The fortunate lot of us are those who know how to expend harmonious energies in the mortal years that are afforded us. Those of us who die with our accomplishments made and our virtues exercised have less energy left to burn, and it is such fortunate saints who have less of a term to serve in the infernal prison of the depths. They will sleep sooner, and thus ignore the pain of endless ending, for the only form of peace one can hope to experience in the infinite void is the utter lack of comprehension itself.

I suppose I could have made use of this knowledge, Vinyl. With the Tome of Ending in my grasp, I could have stayed on the surface world, could have fought the blindness, and could have taught hundreds if not thousands of ponies the true nature of eternity. Perhaps I could have even founded a new religion, a means by which equine souls could find peace in utmost harmony.

But I couldn't. I had to come here, Vinyl. I had to dive deeper than the darkness in which I dream of such haunting death and anguished, mewling cries. I had to go deeper than even the soul of my mother when she slipped away from me, when she paved the slope smoothly into the bottomless pit of agony. I dove in without looking back, without mourning the destruction of my hopes, dreams, and talents.

For you too were a precious thing,

Yours forever,
-Octavia














Dear Vinyl,

The changes have begun, just like I imagined they would. I simply didn't expect them to be transpiring so soon.

I first noticed them when I began tripping on the length of my cloak. I paused, halfway in the middle of scaling a series of metal-plated bunkers close to the bottom level of Pandemonium. I removed my cloak entirely. The wounds on my forelimb had dried, so I had no risk of shining bloodlight while I examined my robe.

The cloak indeed seemed larger somehow, as if it had grown several centimeters over the past twelve hours. I knew better, of course. I glanced down at my limbs, and I saw that there was less distance than I remembered between the ends of my hooves and my upper joints. It was a subtle change, but shocking nevertheless.

What was more, when I raised a hoof to the back of my head, I felt a tiny forest of mane hair having sprung back up where I shaved it. I know it's been the course of at least three days since I first landed here in Pandemonium, but a mane wouldn't naturally have grown back in even three times that time frame. Then again, I'm not exactly in a "natural" state, now am I?

There's something else that's unique about the mane hair. It's far softer than it was when I shaved it back in Masada. If I didn't know better, I'd imagine that some invisible ghost had moistened and conditioned it overnight. This isn't possible, of course, but my hair feels unrealistically soft as it grows back. It almost feels like I'm stroking the developing mane of a newborn foal.

I have to hurry. I must get out of Pandemonium before it's too late. Already, I can feel my limbs wanting to rip off from the insane effort it takes to drag this cello case with me. Things would be a great deal easier if I could just carry the tinier violin by itself, but I can't. I have to bring the cello to the first chamber of the prison at least. From then on, I should be fine.

I need courage. But, more than that, I need to stop shrinking.

Goddesses help me, Vinyl,
-Octavia











Beloved Vinyl,

As you can suspect, my journey has required a certain degree of detachment in order to bring me this far. If I had stopped to help out every beggar along the arid highway leading northwest out of Equestria, if I had paused to chat with every family along the streets of Masada, if I had halted my travels to humor the ministry of every monk within the Harmonious Cathedral, I would not have been able to approach the pits of the wasteland that have brought me this far to begin with.

In the dark decrepit hovels of Pandemonium, the situation has not been altogether different. My account of discovering the unborn foals was just one scenario, Vinyl. The fact is, I have run into several situations where every fiber of my being wanted to stop and intervene. But how would I intervene? I couldn't even begin to guess. Possessing the Tome of Ending does indeed make me feel somewhat empowered, but all it's managed to do is help me evade the orcish maurauders of this place. I very deeply doubt that there's a spell in Starswirl's arsenal that would actually allow me to combat these creatures.

And to what end? I've observed them ensnaring and torturing the wayward souls of ponies who have fallen into this wretched hovel. It pains me to no end to witness it, but what good would come of my interceding on the spirits' behalf? The best that could happen is that such spirits would be tossed back into the currents of the dead, bound to suffer the same anguish and torment as all souls who descend into the depths of Tartarus' hellscape.

But this one time, several hours ago, I simply could not control myself, Vinyl. There is only so much that an equine can endure in this nightmare before the pressures and misery of the orcish slums finally have their effect on her.

I was snapped out of my stealthy sojourn through this demon city by the sound of an otherworldly shriek. I craned my neck around a pillar of rusted, barb-wired shields nailed end-to-end. Sure enough, another equine soul had fallen loosely to the body of Pandemonium. The spirit did not achieve horrific lucidity until it had descended to the deep level around where I stood. There, its form became corporeal, bouncing pathetically against the rusted, ramshackled surfaces of the amber-lit ghetto. It didn't last long until a legion of orcs descended upon it in a fit of growls and blood-curdling cackles.

With a shudder, I tried to look away. But there was something different about this spirit, Vinyl. It was a mare—what's more, it was a young unicorn. By my estimation, she had died at a young age, and quite unexpectedly too. I saw pure fear brimming from her effluent eye sockets. At first, she didn't register what the orcs were doing to her. My heart sank as I heard a voice resonating from her energetic form, begging to know what had happened to her husband, her foals, an entire village full of ponies that had apparently drowned in a great flood along with her.

At some point, the delirium passed, making way for true agony. By then, the trolls and ogres had unsheathed their blades, and they were taking turns butchering the hapless unicorn spirit. In the throes of torture, the pony's essence mimicked mortal wounds. I watched in a frozen lurch as its body ripped apart, rolling across the plywood walkways, unraveling with splashing, translucent sinews and intestines, only to swiftly coalesce—glowing body and entrails and all—with its reforming mouth locked in a ghostly scream. Not a second had passed when the orcs descended upon her once more. After centuries of hideous ritual, they knew the rules of this unholy game, and they took advantage of it, ripping her head clean off and kicking the lumiscent cranium around until unearthly forces flung it back to the central weight of her spirit, so that she molded back together under a chorus of sobs and wails, begging to the ancient alicorns of harmony for one sight—one single glance of her children—to know that they were suffering a fate far more gracious than this.

There was no answer to her prayers, only more bludgeons and blows from the minions of Hell's summit. They ripped her apart and lacerated her endlessly, spitting into her glowing wounds while they locked back together, giving the creatures more meat to massacre over and over. This went on for an eternal twenty minutes. In all of my time in Pandemonium, I had never seen a soul tormented for this long. I feared for a moment that she had wandered too far from the current, that she could be lost amidst the violent torment of these orcs for days, months, even years.

Hell is Hell, Vinyl, but somehow I felt that this was not the destiny meant for this mare's spirit. I should have known better than to get involved. Starswirl's Tome has taught me the true nature of Tartarus, of the process by which the end of all existence digests a soul gradually over time. I suppose I was still poisoned by the kiss of pure grace. A part of me still clings to hope, Vinyl, and that is not always a blessing thing.

From an adjacent alleyway, I saw that they were gradually kicking and shoving the mutilated spirit into an open spot located in the middle of a broad, torchlit street. If I was to do anything, now was my time. I reached into my cello case and removed the instrument, but I suddenly found it too cumbersome to carry it five feet, much less to go galloping straight forward with the neck of the thing clasped in my mouth. My limbs were smaller than the last time I had performed the cello.

So, for the first time since I purchased it, I lifted the small violin out from its container. It seemed less tiny to me now; I wondered if I could actually play it without mishap. I suppose I was about to find out.

I waited for a break in the beatdown. Sure enough, as I watched fitfully from the sidelines, a giant ogre rushed in and kicked the glowing unicorn spirit. She rolled—sobbing—across the platforms until she came to a stop about fifteen feet from me. Holding my breath, I dashed out into the open torchlight of Pandemonium, billowing cloak and all. At first, the orcish gang was simply too stunned to do anything but stand and gawk at the sight of me. I couldn't blame them; my mind was stabbing me for doing something so brash and suicidal.

However, I am not in the least bit ashamed to say that I dove by her side, Vinyl. Then, without delay, I clasped my teeth over the edge of my pocketknife and swiped at a spot above my left rear leg. The flashing pain was brief as blood leaked down my haunches, which was propped upon the centermost, unfolded copper page of the Tome of Ending. I sat on Starswirl's book like a seat cushion, allowing the blood to mingle with the runes so that it activated the "spell of harmonic resonance" that lay within. Then, as the final catalyst to the magic, I played a melody on the violin.

Thus, I flung sound into the air, and the echoing noise that reverberated throughout Pandemonium was louder than any shriek or wail of agony that had transpired there over the past three thousand years. The orcish populace swiftly forgot that they had even spotted me to begin with. What's more, they were so completely awash in confusion that they ignored the unicorn spirit altogether.

Orcs are orcs, and soon their panic turned to anger. Like starving animals, the creatures turned on one other. I watched in fitful horror, struggling to play evenly as the vagrant streets of the demonic shantytown turned into a veritable blood bath. Troll turned against troll; goblin turned against goblin. The ugly monstrosities lunged upon one another, rendering each other's flesh to ribbons with merciless swings of their blades.

What an awkward sight I must have been, a lone earth pony in the center of a hellish city, playing a fiddle while a confused unicorn ghost clung to me in the midst of a rampaging battle. The air stung with the foul smell of orcish entrails and steaming body fluids. I felt remarkably unfazed by it all; but, of course, I was intensely concerned about the spirit whom I had just spared from a prolonged beating.

Soon, the battle raged on, taking its heated melee away, spreading past the streets adjacent to the blood-soaked courtyard in which I stood. My music stopped, and I panted for breath, listening as the battle infected the distant fringes of Pandemonium, no doubt purging the demonic population of its angrier occupants.

The pain in my flank was excruciating. I knew I had to patch it up swiftly before I lost too much blood. However, the first thing on my mind was the mare's spirit. I turned to her and tried to say something, inquiring whether or not she could register my words.

When her glowing head lifted, she gazed past me. There was panic in her eyes that knew no rest. She could very well have been lying in the center of a beautiful garden, surrounded by sunshine and flowers, and still she would be acquainted with no less agony and despair. She murmured something in an accented tone, reminiscent of the dialogue of pony civilizations two hundred years deceased. Only two and a half sentences came out, begging for knowledge of where her children went.

It was then that I saw something fluttering through my peripheral vision. Was it a butterfly? A moth? I turned to see, and that was when the spirit before me yelped.

I flashed a look in her direction, and I gasped. Something was ensnaring her: tendrils of white fiber from beyond. I watched in horror as the ghostly strands yanked her through the surface of the street. She sank through, once more an incorporeal shadow of the mortal she once was. Her screams were like distant pindrops at the far end of a deep cave, and then her wails melted into the singular ringing noise of damnable existence.

I called out after her, but my voice was nothing but a solid echo against the guts and writhing bodies of dying orcs all around me. I woke up to the fact that I had instigated a massacre in the heart of Pandemonium—and to what end? The spirit that I saved was simply dragged off into a deeper Hell, and I had bled myself for nothing.

So it was with a dull lurch that I trotted down the empty, abandoned streets of that demonscape. The deaths that my spell had caused emptied the avenues, making them momentarily safe to traverse, but that was very little consolation.

I had hope, Vinyl, and that hope rewarded me with nothing but emptiness. What more do I hope to eke from the abysmal depths of Tartarus? What was it that ensnared the ghostly mare from beyond? Was the prison embracing her? Had it yet to embrace me?

I do not know, Vinyl, but I must press on.

In deep thought,
-your Octavia
















Dear Vinyl,

I do not understand.

I have descended the entire body of Pandemonium. I have trotted down every walkway, every rickety plank, every rusted platform—and I simply do not understand.

Surely this is the topmost surface of Tartarus. Surely this onyx metal is the exterior to the continental prison that the ancient alicorns had constructed eons ago. Undoubtedly this is where the city of the orcs end and the bowels of Hell begin.

But where do I go? Where is there an entrance? I see no seams, no visible line of separation. Should I be looking for a door? A hatch? A chamber?

No doubt, the five chambers were built so that they could not be opened, and this topmost part of the infernal machine is no exception. But I know that Starswirl had entered. Not only did he come here, but he rose back up to the surface world—somehow—with the strength to write about it.

Was it his blindness that gave him a secret sense, a keen understanding for how to enter and exit this place? All I see is black metal, and in the hard surface are a myriad of effigies, dark equine shapes twisted and turning and—

No.

They are not effigies. I understand now. Forgive me, Vinyl, but I must stop writing. I must examine this more closely. I think... yes, I think I have discovered what had happened to the ancient alicorns who built this place.

Sincerely,
-Octavia















Dear Vinyl,

In the Tome of Ending, Starswirl the Bearded writes of how the ancient alicorns "sacrificed their immortality" to imprison the chaos lords within Tartarus forever. It is even common knowledge among mortal Equestrians that Tartarus was a sacrifice that saw the end of alicorn civilization while at the same time assuring a mortal landscape free of horrible monsters.

What very few ponies know, Vinyl, is that the alicorns not only gave their lives to build Tartarus, but they gave up their bodies. It is believed that the Star Father Wh'lynsehaym and his children were so prosperous that their bodies outnumbered the stars in the sky, shining their life energy across the fields of this primordial world. I know this, for I have seen their fate. There were more alicorns than there were grains of sand on a beach, Vinyl, and they have all coalesced here. They have all died in each other's forelimbs, molding together, solidifying together.

Tartarus is the ancient alicorns. They knew that the only way to lock away the power of the chaos lords was to utilize their own spirits of immortal harmony. So it was that they ensnared the five abominations of old and surrounded them with their own essence. The alicorns then gave up the ghost, and their ashen bodies molded together, becoming something far denser than the strongest metal on earth, and just as lifeless.

Deep within the five enormous chambers, empowered into cyclonic motion by the last will of Wh'lynsehaym, the heart of Tartarus holds sway over the currents of the spiritual realm. Its power is unrelenting, and it harnesses a gravity to which all magics, all energies, and all leylines are hopelessly drawn. The result of this is that all spirits of all ponies who have ever died ever are drawn to the same nexus that is responsible for keeping the leviathans of chaos from destroying the lands above.

It is the most fragile balance of all, Vinyl. In exchange for a harmonious realm, in exchange for peace on earth, the alicorns created a purgatory. Hell itself is a force, a state of decay that all spirits must endure. Only, after the construction of Tartarus, Hell found an anchor, a place where all souls would be inevitably channeled.

I've read Starswirl's Tome of Ending over and over. Nowhere does he ever state that the alicorns potentially knew of the fate that they had constructed for all future Equestrians. I sincerely doubt that even Starswirl could have ascertained the truth behind it all.

I would like to think that the alicorns were simply ignorant, that they were so intensely concerned with protecting the mortal realms and the cosmos beyond from the rampaging forces of chaos that they neglected to think of the consequences for the hellscape that they had designed. How could they possibly have known that the five chambers built for ancient monsters would inevitably become a prison for the souls of those whom they were sworn to protect in the first place? What possible scope could have allowed them to see that we unfortunate mortals would become acquainted with the banished monstrocities in those damnable chambers?

But now I think differently, Vinyl. It occurs to me that the alicorns knew very well that they were damning the spirit realm in their desperation to salvage a future from all existence. What a horrible price that must have been: to assure the eternity of everything while at the same time acknowledging the torture and pain that would come with the labors of maintaining such equilibrium. Did they have any respect for us at all? Did they feel for the mortals whose eternal fate would be bound by the giant weight that they had dropped upon the bleeding fabric of the underworld?

Surely, we were just insects to them, Vinyl. They were gods, immortal icons through and through. They tasted the luxury of annihilation while we all must linger on within the wounds they have made in this world. How easy it must have been for them to have retired with the full knowledge that Creation would be preserved, and yet altogether ignoring the fact that suffering too would be maintained until the end of ending.

And yet, I cannot bring myself to despise them. I walk over their fossils—their twisted and gnarled bodies that make up the black shell of Tartarus beneath me. I see the folds of their wings and the spikes of their horns, interlaced tightly in frozen torment. Perhaps they did not die after all, Vinyl. Perhaps they are still alive in there, sleeping in deep, restless anxiety, and their nightmare is what powers the machine, that gives it animation and purpose.

What would happen if the nightmare ended? What would happen if the alicorn dream fell apart, and all manner of evil flew out from the shattered scarab shell that was their crowning achievement and holocaust all at once? Would the doom of the universe at the claws of the chaos lords be a better fate than what we all ultimately have in store? Would worldly peace be anymore fleeting than the eternal sleep that lingers beyond the years of torture and despair awaiting each and every one of us?

Hell is terrible, Vinyl, but we at least hope to find bliss and nothingness at the end of such a twilight tenure. Can the alicorns afford the same? In their slumber, they have become the unwitting wardens of Hell, just as much as they have formed the walls and floors of it. I cannot think of a more deplorable fate, and yet it consumed an entire race of gods and goddesses who came before us.

When the only gift our cosmic superiors could give us was something wrapped in the fabric of utter misery, what—then—can be more beautiful, more precious, more sacred than the world that they so ardently sought to protect?

It is so very dark here, Vinyl, between the bulwarks of Pandemonium and the upper layer of Tartarus. But that darkness reminds me that I once was able to cherish light in the first place, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I have only one race to thank for that.

I must find a break in their bodies. Somewhere in this black mesh of frozen alicorn limbs, there is an entrance.

Something is happening to the Tome of Ending. The horn of Wh'lynsehaym shimmers, fluctuating with each movement that I make. I think it is guiding me someplace. I must find it before the orcs discover the source of my hooves' scraping noises here in the abyss. I never thought I would ever be in such a hurry to descend into Hell.

In earnest,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

I can only describe it as harrowing.

After much searching, I finally found the entrance to the first chamber of Tartarus, though it would be far more appropriate to say that the entrance found me.

I wish I could say that it was with ease, but it wasn't. A band of orcs had spotted me by the glowing aura of Wh'lynsehaym's horn, and they gave chase. From a towering platform that loomed over where I galloped, they came charging down, carrying torches and all manner of ancient, rusted weaponry.

My first thought was to play the "spell of harmonic resonance," but I chose not to. It occurred to me that—there in the basement bowels of Pandemonium—the musical trick would not work for me. The hellscape between the orcish city and the surface of Tartarus is mostly barren, not to mention spacious. Aside from the large, thick, metal-reinforced pillars that hold up the demonic ghetto above, there is nothing but bleak emptiness that devours all echoes. I knew instantly that any sound spell would fail in confusing the orcs, and they would simply rend me to pieces while I foolishly floundered over a cello or violin.

As I tried to flee them, it became apparent how swiftly they would outrun my hooves. Though my body hadn't needed food nor sleep since I first plunged into the abyss beyond Cerberus, it was still immeasurably weary from countless hours of descending the levels of Pandemonium, not to mention being abused by the multiple bloody lacerations I had made to perform Starswirl's spells. Ache and exhaustion had overwhelmed me, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the orcs did to me exactly what I had seen them do to countless equine spirits before. Unlike those souls, however, as soon as I'd be torn apart, my body wouldn't be able to come back together again.

I fell into a cold, cold panic. I thought of screaming. I thought of begging with them. I thought of ripping Wh'lynsehaym's horn loose and somehow utilizing it as a crude weapon.

Most of all, Vinyl, I thought of you. I thought of your placid smile, of the magenta sheen in your eyes during a bright sunset, of the tired purr to your voice as you let me nuzzle you to sleep, night after night. You have always, never-ceasingly been a source of strength to me. Even in my darkest hour, when all of my sorrows and fears rose to the surface, you've been my guiding light.

It was then, in a teary-eyed blink, that I saw shadows dancing across the frozen effigies of the deceased alicorns all around me. I turned to see that Wh'lynsehaym's horn was glowing brighter than ever before. What's more, it was strobing with brilliance every time I pivoted the Tome of Ending in a particular direction.

I ignored the incoming charge of the orcs, instead choosing to trot calmly towards where the horn was pulsating the most. I found what looked like a giant groove creased along the bodies of the stone-solid alicorns. Had I discovered the entrance? Had I stumbled upon the lid to the prison of ages?

I didn't even need to utter those questions out loud. With an abominable hiss, like mists rising from the nostrils of a sleeping dragon the size of a continent, the groove separated. The sheets of black metal glided apart on either side of the partition. The grinding noise that came with it was deaffening, and the resulting gasps of the orcs were drowned out in an instance.

I was absolutely alarmed by the nature of what was happening, and yet a deep part of me was intrigued all the same. The pulsating horn of Wh'lynsehaym, the Star Father, was opening the door to his dead children's prison for the first time in three thousand years—when Starswirl the Bearded first entered and exited this damnable realm. So engrossed was I that I didn't even notice a separate roll of thunder that was bellowing out from on top of me.

I glanced up, and I gasped. All of Pandemonium was splitting in two. I watched as the bottoms of countless platforms bowed and heaved as if a giant toddler was pulling it apart with twin hooves. I realized—just as the shrieking orcs were starting to realize—that with the lid of Tartarus opening up, the foundations of the orc city were being ripped out from underneath it. It was only a matter seconds before the entire festering city of demons and imps came crashing down on top of us all.

It was no time to panic. I had read Starswirl's Tome repeatedly. I told myself that I knew what lie in wait for me beyond the gaping mouth of the prison. There was no way I could go about this with an impulsive leap. A spell was in order.

So, taking a page from Cerberus' cavern, I flipped through the tome until I found the "spell of effluent wings." The orcs behind me were starting to clamber in my direction—or, better yet, in the direction of the sudden, gaping entrance before me. I had very little time to spare. When I cut my forelimb for blood, it was hardly a delicate procedure. I leaked a great deal more profusely than I had hoped. Nevertheless, hissing my way through the pain, I soaked the copper pages with my essence and felt my body becoming light as a feather.

The vagrant creatures were practically diving at me by the time I threw myself into Hell's mouth. They flailed apprehensively on the edge of the entrance as I descended past them. It was as though they were overwhelmed by a great deal of hesitance upon the edge of Tartarus' gaping maw. It mattered little, for as soon as my body descended into the stale darkness of the first chamber, and as soon as Wh'lynsehaym's horn grew distant from the infernal lid to the place, the door began sealing itself behind.

A cacophonous echo blasted down from above. I looked up in my descent to see the orcs shrieking and fighting for what little space was left in between the closing metal lid. In a bright flash of amber light, I made out the body of Pandemonium falling on top of them, crushing them to a pulp against the teeth of Tartarus' upper entrance as it all came together around their twitching bodies. Everything became echoes of stifled bedlam, and soon I was engulfed in darkness—save for the pale glow of the Star Father.

Pandemonium is no more, Vinyl. After three thousand years, my presence here has utterly demolished the last bastion of Equestrian orcs. Perhaps in a few more millennia, another damnable metropolis will take its place. However, that is not my concern; my conscience anguishes not.

In a cold chill, my hooves landed on something. I glanced down to see what could best be described as a mountain of heterogenous junk. I almost whimpered from the sensation, only to hear how high pitched my voice had become... and how much that startled me. I have changed. What's more, I have arrived upon the prison of darkness.

It is all just as Starswirl has written, and yet no words of his could prepare me for this place.

Hell has devoured me.
-Octavia















Beloved Vinyl,

I cannot stop crying. It is not the utter despair that is making these tears flow. It is not the cold sterile air of this place. It is not the wails of utter misery echoing in the distance nor the perpetual blackness looming beyond every crumbling hill of ancient refuse.

It is something else, something glorious.

I landed here in the first chamber barely two hours ago. I did not know where to go. Wh'lynsehaym's horn had adopted a constant glow; it could no longer tell me in which direction I was to trek. So I wandered aimlessly. If nothing else, I was attempting to get my bearings of this place: in desperation that I somehow could.

The venture has been for naught. All I've found are hills, crests, and dunes upon dunes of junk. Rolling plains of crumpled, fallen debris fill the cavernous expanse all around me. From toys to furniture to farming equipment to picture frames to all manners of jewelry: this entire domain is a veritable heap of hazardous randimosity. I find myself slipping time and time again as I endeavor to scale a peak or two of the towering bric-a-brac.

One such mountain, I ascended only a few minutes ago. Raising the Tome of Ending high above my head, I shone Wh'lynsehaym's horn in every direction. The light couldn't penetrate into the darkness far, but of what I could see in that pale glow: all was barren plains of fallen antiques and the boundless, unnamed detritus of ponydom.

How all of this garbage got here is a mystery. Everything is covered in dust and sediment, as if the junk fell here millennia ago and has lingered—untouched—ever since. I know better than to think that I'm the only lone soul here. I hear moans in the distance, accompanied by the skittering and clamoring of limbs. This continental cavern is home to more than trash and darkness. Even now, I shudder to think of what will happen when I encounter the denizens of Hell.

But it is not them who I seek, nor is it the abandoned hovels of this forsaken tomb to miscellany. As I stood upon the hill of refuse, I felt my heart beating through my chest. It was time that I test the waters.

I could no longer use the cello—not like I wished to. I had simply become too small for it now. Instead, I reached into the violin case and pulled out the smaller instrument. I knew that it was the appropriate size for a foal when I first bought it in Masada. Everything fit into my forelimbs comfortably as I sat there in the belly of Tartarus and performed a song... the song.

Your song, Vinyl. I played it; I strummed it into the shadows of oblivion. When I reached the abrupt end of the instrumental, I slowed my movements and closed my eyes. My whole body relaxed, as if waiting to wade in the rising tide of fortune.

There were mornings, Vinyl, when I would wake up in a fit of gasps. I would think—with fitful spasms—that time had somehow reversed, and I was once more a filly in the streets of Canterlot, lying beside the invalidic body of my mother, having to weather another day of her wheezing breaths while being powerless to do anything about her impending doom.

But before the tears would spring from my eyes, I heard a sound—a most heavenly sound—the sound of your voice as you slept and stirred beside me in the early morning glow. And when the tears came, they were warm things, like a lazy rain shower on a summer afternoon, smooth and cleansing with each quivering wave. I'd lie close to you, hugging you from behind, stroking your mane and murmuring ceaselessly my passionate, devoted, and undeniable love for you, for the pony who had come into my existence and given it such warmth, such meaning, such life. You'd squeeze my hooves back from beyond the veil of sleep, and when I saw the curve to your slumbering lips, my entire world melted, and the tears would double.

Now, I am crying again Vinyl. I am crying because for the first time in over five years, I am feeling that warmth again. Even here in the pit of Hell, it soothes me, caresses me, and sings to me.

Your voice, Vinyl: it sings to me. For as I finished the performance, and as my bowstring lingered on the notes, I found more chords springing up to me from the abyss. I played the next few notes without thinking, and before I knew it, the song had evolved. It had grown: blossomed like miraculous flowers in the throat of darkness and misery. Before I knew it, my violin solo had ended, but not without performing half of a bridge that I had never even heard before.

The song isn't finished, Vinyl, not by a long shot. Your symphony continues, for it calls to me, rising up in victorious pitch, like the angelic breaths of a pony stuck in endless sleep, no matter how fitful her nightmares.

I can't stop crying, Vinyl, because after so many years, I am so very close to finding you. And I will find you, my love, no matter how long it takes, no matter how deeply I must plunge, no matter how much of myself I must sacrifice to the darkness. I will find you, and I will hold you once again.

With utmost adoration,
-your Octavia




















Dear Vinyl,

The only way to go forward is to descend. This is not an easy task by any stretch, but it is a journey that I must take. After all, though your symphony has miraculously acquired a newer piece to its instrumental, it is far from finished. I must go deeper into Tartarus to find more, and that only means one thing and one thing alone: trekking downward.

It is not as though I can simply find a ladder and use that to scale my way towards the second chamber. The alicorns built this place as a prison, and that's all that the mammoth interior of Tartarus has ever been. However, it would seem that the purgatorial weight that has collected over the years, combined with the chaotic whim of the abomination ensnared within, has brought about an unfathomable change to this domain.

Unfortunately, Starswirl the Bearded's details of the makeup of this place is minimalist at best. Even if he did attempt to establish a map of the first chamber's interior, it would not have been of much use to me. Over the course of three thousand years, this crumbling landscape has undoubtedly experienced several shifts, mutations, and alterations to its hellish topography.

A great deal of this has become more than evident as I've trotted down the precarious slopes of the place. The "ground" below is constantly shaking and shifting. I hear terrible groaning sounds: the noise of thousands upon millions of tons of debris settling against each other beneath me. More than a dozen times, I've nearly pratfalled from slipping on a bicycle wheel or tripping over a pile of books. It is not rare for tiny avalances to occur on either side of me, filling my ears with the cacophony of random objects flowing downhill along my descent.

All of this I witness in the pale glow of Wh'lynsehaym's ancient horn. Everything is gray, bleak, and lifeless—as if whatever vibrance these rattling piles of possessions once had was sapped dry after eons of neglect and bitterness.

I must admit, I did not expect a scene like this. It's not as if I'm complaining; I simply feel as though I am missing something, and I fear that whatever it is, it will overwhelm me when I least expect it. Everything is so desolate, quiet, and tense. I feel that the sound of butterfly wings would be like thunder in this deep, deep expanse. I trot downhill nervously, my every hoof-step a pensive thing, for I almost expect an errant explosion to rock me to my core at any given gasp.

Simply moving forward is a difficult task in and of itself. I am so small now that—I swear—the cello case weighs at least half as much as I do. I find myself having to drag it by the neck behind me, grinding its black surface through heaps and mounds of wooden and metal debris. I pause to take breaks several times. When I try to cool down I only sweat more and more. This cloak—as wonderful as it is—now utterly suffocates me. It is practically a blanket to my petite body at this point, and it rides over my hooves and legs, nearly tripping me with each step. I am quite seriously considering slicing it into smaller sections so as to be less cumbersome.

I suppose it would be a great deal easier to simply cast off these things: to toss the cello case into the mounds of garbage and throw my cloak to the invisible wind. But I can't make myself do that—not yet. I am quite certain that I have need of them still: especially the cello case.

After all, if what Starswirl the Bearded hinted at in his writings is true, then there will come a time when I will no longer be able to descend merely by my own strength. I will reach an impasse, and once there I will have to sneak past something that was banished here at the Dawn of Harmony. Only by evading its senses will I find a way to descend even further, and still it will be an arduous trek to the second chamber.

That is assuming, of course, that the symphony isn't finished by the time that I get there. I hope beyond hope, Vinyl, that you are anyplace—anywhere—but within the second chamber.

I must stop writing. I hear noises ahead and down below. I think I know which direction to take now.

Blessed Celestia, this cello is so damn heavy,
-Octavia














My Dear Vinyl,

I bought this cello seven years ago. You should remember. As a matter of fact, it was you who saw it lying on display in the front window of the Ponyvillean Music Emporium during our first walk through town after moving in. At the time, I didn't exactly need a brand new cello. I was always using the antique instrument that I was given by one of my many foster parents a decade prior. It had served me through many performances and symphonies throughout Canterlot, and it still had a lot of life left in it.

However, when you spotted this one cello at the Emporium, and I saw that mischievous grin of yours flashing beneath your violet shades, I was suddenly enthralled by an impulsive wave of euphoria. The first instrument I had ever used was bequeathed me by my mother, and it meant the end of one miserable life and the beginning of a terrifyingly lonely one. Suddenly, the thought of buying a brand new cello held a great deal of potential significance to me. After all, you were the essence of my brand new life, Vinyl. Beginning each morning with you felt like starting my existence anew everyday. I suppose I wanted to encapsulate that somehow, to symbolize it with an act of brazen indulgence. I wanted to live again—to be reborn in every metaphoric way feasible.

It was not a cheap decision, to say the least. Inevitably, we had to scrimp on groceries for the next few weeks. Still, I knew that I had your ever-loving support. That didn't stop me from weighing the decision entirely on your permission, regardless. You merely chortled at my excessive humility and practically dragged me into the music store yourself, where I made true with burning a hole through my bit bag.

That night, after spending hours tuning it inside our still sparsely furnished apartment, I played an instrumental on the thing for the very first time. The sound resonating from its wooden body was unique. For so long, I had become used to the wavering vibrations produced by my antique touring instrument. However, I liked the sound of this new cello for a completely different reason. It had a crisp quality, something unfettered by the fractures of time and use. In many ways, it made me think of your synthesized masterpieces—so dependent on the purity of the sound, much like you.

I was honored to have you as my first audience, and I delighted at the sound of your solitary applause against the floor of our apartment. And then our reverie was cut short as the tenants below us started banging on the ceiling, insisting on silence for the rest of the evening. I blushed with embarassment, but you merely laughed—producing a heavenly sound that no instrument could mimic, no matter how new or expensive. We cuddled in a fortress of unpacked boxes besides the fireplace, and I spent the rest of the night nuzzling you, finding ways to summon that laughter over and over again, so that I could drown myself in that perfect sound.

That is what this cello means to me, Vinyl. That—more than anything—is why I have held onto it for so many years, even in the arduous months of late where I've traversed the far reaches of Northwestern Equestria to get to this spot. It is full of memories: clean, symphonic, happy memories. When I play it—even if it isn't a performance of your song—I hear your voice, and it is a sound that makes me want to laugh and smile. I close my eyes and I feel as though I am with you once again by the fireplace, surrounded by all of the treasures that have followed us from Canterlot, ready to be poured out upon this bright home we had acquired in the humble heart of Ponyville.

And yet, as much as I love and adore this treasure of mine, I must remind myself that it is simply an object, an artifice, a bridge to the goal and not a piece of it. In many ways, the memories of you are just as superficial. They fill me with mirth and they drive me ever faithfully towards you—yes—but in the end I must clear them from my path if we are to reunite.

I can only wonder, though, just how much more I will have to give up, and just how difficult it will be when the time comes.

And yet, for you, my darling Vinyl, everything. Absolutely, everything.

With devotion,
-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I cannot measure time in this place. Starswirl made it clear in the Tome of Ending that Tartarus exists within a void where time and space hold little meaning. I think that might clearly explain how so much junk has filled the belly of the first chamber; it is the accumulated rubbish of the past, present, and future.

Whatever is the case, I do believe I have reached the churning center of whatever energy empowers this place.

It started with the sounds that I wrote about hearing in the entry before last. Over the course of several hours—or days—I approached the cacophonous reverberations, with only the pale gray glow of Wh'lynsehaym's horn as my pathfinder. Within the last few hours alone, however, I discovered that I could just as well put the Tome of Ending away, for several blazes suddenly lit the hellscape, billowing from dozens upon dozens of random pyres that consumed these peaks—these cliffs of castoffs.

The noises, indeed, turned out to be the wails of equine souls. Unlike the tornadic river of spirits that orbited the body of Pandemonium above, these damned ponies have lost their lustre here. Perhaps it happened at some point during the process of being dragged through the metal shell of alicorn bodies that entomb this place. Tartarus' gravity overwhelmed them, sapped these spirits of energy, and deposited them here like loose bits. When they arrived, they were not alone. The clutter and scrap of countless ages followed them, haunted by whatever residial emotions of pain and remorse that empowered the spirits to still cling to such materials.

I stand now on a hill overlooking a veritable battleground of covetous strife. Droves upon droves of stumbling spirits squabble over anything they can get their necrotic hooves on. These undead quadrupeds drag their wounded limbs and flanks through mountains of refuse, clutching to a piece of glittering treasure that they insist is theirs, only to look over their shoulders and see an item in the embrace of another pony and suddenly desire it with even greater passion.

What follows is a ridiculous scuffle as everypony tackles one another, fighting tooth and hoof over something of banal importance. The air fills with groans and howls as every obscenity that has ever graced Equestrian civilization makes itself manifest in three dozen dead languages simultaneously. I can't help but wince, for as absurd as the fights are, it doesn't change the fact that they are utterly brutal. It is not rare for me to see a stallion snapping another pony's neck at an awkward angle or bashing a fellow spirit's skull in with a random heirloom or two. Just like the unfortunate souls who landed in Pandemonium, these undead entities morph back into gasping victims of pain, only to fall prey to an amnesiac frenzy as they rejoin the fray and experience the madness and torture all over again.

I want to pity these tortured souls, Vinyl, but a part of me can't help but feel... I don't know. I stand here on a hill overlooking the bloody melee, and I can't see myself trotting down. It's as if I feel more secure being positioned so high above them. What's more, I feel as though I am safe... and that my cello is safe.

I clutch the large instrument and its case to me. I don't know why, but I keep shivering. I have a hard time writing, because I keep breaking off to hug the cello even closer. My heart throbs with the thought that these cretins might look up and see me. I'm horrified to think of what would happen then. They might try to grab this cello. They might even bash it to bits and devour it with their bloody little mouths and—

I don't like this, Vinyl. Something is happening to me. I feel too close to the fringe of emptiness, like a giant whirlpool is threatening to suck me in. I know I have to go deeper—that I have to descend to a place far enough so that the next time I play your symphony, it may evolve even more... perhaps even completing itself. And yet, I'm too afraid to take another step. I don't want to lose...

I don't want to lose...

Blessed Celestia, what is happening to me?

I need to rest. I can't go forward right now, not with this battle happening in my midst. I simply can't. Goddesses help me, Vinyl, but I need to find another way in.

Sincerely,
-Octavia











My Dear Vinyl,

I did rest just as I decided to at the end of the last entry. However, I almost wished that I didn't.

It's not like I didn't have this moment coming, Vinyl. I just didn't expect to meditate on it so soon or so heavily. But, as always, it helps when I write to you about it. After all, when everything is said and done, it is my true ardent desire for you to know everything. I just hope you won't hold it against me for having bequeathed you with such knowledge, no matter how disturbing.

When I removed my cloak to rest and cool off, I felt as though a second robe had materialized above my head. In a high-pitched gasp, I flung two hooves up to my skull. As it so happens, my mane has grown back, Vinyl. What's more, it's softer, longer, and fuller than ever before.

Well, no, not quite. My mane was like this once before. Time and time again, you used to compliment me on how beautiful my hair was, and on each occasion I would assure you that there was a moment when my mane was even more resplendent—more specifically when I was a young filly just starting her symphonic legacy in the concert halls of Canterlot. I swear, the braids that my caretakers made of it were masterpieces of their own. It was styled absolutely perfectly for the early years when I was presented as an Equestrian prodigy for the spotlight.

Now, my hair is just as rich and vibrant again. There's a reason for that, my dear Vinyl. I am a filly once more.

I suppose there's been no use in hiding this fact. Ever since I dove past the cliff where Cerberus guards, I've been overwhelmed by a startling transformation. Truth is, I wasn't entirely startled by it. Starswirl wrote of such a circumstance during his first venture into Tartarus. However, because he was a unicorn sorceror, and a damn legendary one to boot, he was more than capable of creating a counterspell to the rejuvenation effect.

That, of course, is not the case for me. Ever since my cutie mark left, I knew that my body was to undergo a change that would mimic that of the souls who gravitate to this shadowy plane. For my entire journey down Pandemonium and my descent here through the first chamber, I have found myself veritably shrinking. Right now, my legs are as stout as a common foal's. Whenever my panting breath produces a voice, I hear a tone that is hauntingly reminiscent of the little filly that used to weep by her mother's side.

I am not alone in this, Vinyl. From here, I can still see the undead spirits of the damned, fighting over the fire-lit mountains of junk. They are such tiny, petite things, that it is a crime for their limbs to be bleeding over the sharp, jutting edges of this hellscape to begin with. Their high-pitched voices resemble a haunted schoolyard full of squabbling bullies, and in between the angry shouts I hear sobs like that of lost children.

I suppose it is only fitting. When we are stripped of flesh and reduced to our core, our innate nature, Vinyl, we are just as fragile, vulnerable, and lonely as the infants that were first foaled into the world. It is mortal existence's length of time that coccoons us, that clothes us with layers upon layers of abstract debris—much like the fallen detritus of this place—until we give into the artifice of adult pretense and imagine that we are far more grown up than the frightened toddlers that first ever sobbed for love and understanding at an early age.

There is no rose-colored lens in Tartarus, though. Everypony is naked; everypony is true. In a place like this chambered vacuum, there is no room to hide the shivering, skeletal essences of ourselves that have so much to lose and so much more that stands to be corrupted. There is nothing that protects us, nothing that supports us, and nothing that loves us—so long as the entropy of the universe sucks the marrow from our ever-dwindling life energy.

No, my dearest Vinyl, the endless ending has no mercy and no shame. We are all foals in Hell.
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

There is no use in sleeping; I don't know why I've tried. What would I even dream of? I have passed into the realm of eternal ending. Slumber in the real world was only ever practice for Hell, a place where there is no up or down, only energy going inward—and all of it negative.

I've dreamt a lot about you over the past five years.

Even now, it's all that I can think about. I've played your symphony several times in an attempt to get my bearings, but—despite the extra bars it has miraculously grown—it has not evolved any more since. All I can do now is wander aimlessly in this gray and desolate wasteland, stumbling over all of existence's discarded toys.

I am not alone. Dear Goddess, I wish I was. Ponies shout out obscenities left and right on either side of me. It's made all the more grating because each angry voice belongs to a foal. I glance through my peripheral vision to spot fillies and colts—the spirits of all ponydom—fighting and squabbling over whatever junk they have the nerve to pick up. It doesn't matter if something appears to belong to them or not. If they see it and they want it, they're willing to fight for it.

I've been keeping my distance. I don't know what I'll do if they see me. I may be a living soul with her wits about her, but I possess so many vulnerable things that I can't stand to give up. The Tome of Ending. These letters. This cloak.

It is a very good cloak. I don't want to lose it. I don't want to lose...

Blessed Vinyl, I feel so angry. I feel so angry and I don't know why. I detest these ponies. I hate hearing them argue and squabble. I know that this is the prison of Tartarus, but don't they have any better way to bide eternity? At this rate, they will never burn out their energy and enter into endless sleep and peace. What business do they have to hold onto such energy? They might as well give it to me. I need the energy to keep searching for you... to keep playing this song... to recover from the wounds I inflict upon myself with each of Starswirl's spells.

They have no right to hog all of that vitality to themselves. It should belong to ponies who have a reason to use it. It should belong to souls who still possess the faculty to make something useful out of their existence. A pony like myself would do well with that energy. I want it. I wish that they would just give it to me.

What's keeping them? Such detestable ruffians—they would have made much better use as the playthings of the trolls and ogres up above. But the orcs didn't deserve Pandemonium. I took it from them. I'm glad I did. I'd take everything from these ponies too. I would. I would...

Vinyl. Vinyl, please forgive me. My head is swimming in circles. I'm so mad. I'm so mad and I don't know why.

I just want to give you these words. No, I need to give you these words. I need to give something to you. I need to give something.

I need to give,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

I don't understand. Why was my mother so poor? Was it all father's doing? I only know that he was a despicable miscreant from what she told me. Had she fabricated every detestable fact about him? And to what end? She killed herself with the poison of our destitution. She could have given herself so much more. She could have given me so much more.

I mean, how could she have died on me? She gave me a cello, but that wasn't enough. She gave me music lessons and fancy mane conditioners so that I might sound good and look presentable in public, but that wasn't enough.

She should have looked after herself. She should have eaten more, taken more medicine, used her money to give us a better house... in a better neighborhood... with a better future. We could have lived a long life together. We could have been healthy and made friends. I could have become popular, social, and loved among all my peers.

Why didn't she aim for that? Why did she give me a childhood full of stressful music lessons and dying cats and cold moon-lit nights full of tears? How could a mother like that be so selfish? So narrow-minded? She could have given me more. She should have given me more.

Don't I deserve the best? Haven't I suffered enough? I'm a simple pony and I don't ask for much, but the surface world has always seen it fit to take away what's most precious from me. I don't understand it—and I hate it. I hate it so much.

I want more. I want so much more. I deserve it—not just the spotlight and the cheers and the applause—but everything that's beautiful. Everything that shows true craft and attention. Everything that is wholesome and good and exceptional. I deserve it and need it.

I wish...

I just wish...

Oh Vinyl, I just wish I knew why I was feeling this way. I love my mother—I always have. Why am I so mad at her? Writing it down doesn't make me feel any better, but somehow it feels right. It feels right to give all of the sudden, just for giving's sake.

But it hurts. It hurts to do anything but sit here and wallow. Each word I enscribe is like tearing a lock of hair out of the little filly that once stood at her mother's side... and the little filly I've become once again.

I'm sorry, Vinyl. I've read some of the paragraphs that I've written just now, and I'm sorry. I think I know why I've put those words down, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.

I have to descend. I know that the second chamber is even worse than this one, but I can't stay here. I have to find a way beyond. I have to get past the ancient prisoner and carry my way through Tartarus. If I stick to any one spot, then it will consume me. Like the dead alicorns of old, I'll become one with the walls of this prison, and the only way the anguished souls will ever know that I was here will be from the useless detritus my anguished flesh will have left behind.

Please bear with me, Vinyl. You're the greatest gift I could ever have asked for,
-Octavia
















Dear Vinyl,

I wish I could say it was my lucid thoughts towards the end of my last letter that woke me out of my spell, but it wasn't. Instead, it was a glinting sight, along with a throng of angry voices that snapped me out of my muddied stupor.

I woke up, and I found my hooves drenched in jewelry and expensive linens. I was stuffing as much of the glittery rubbish into my saddlebag, and I hadn't even realized it. Horrified, I tossed the materials away, examining myself to make sure that I still had my true valuables. To my joy, the Tome, the violin, the cello, and my letters were still on me. I adjusted the folds of my cloak and spun around as the angry voices snapped through the cold air of the chamber once more.

In my stupor, I had stumbled deep into a crowd of ponies. Everything felt cold, claustrophobic, and tenser than steel. Just a few meters away from me, the foals had drawn themselves into a vicious scuffle. I watched as four stallions—colts, all of them—fought violently over a rattling chain of horseshoes tied to a string. In the center of the group, both of his hooves clasping desperately to the articles, was a platinum-furred colt who obviously had been holding onto the horseshoes from the beginning.

A sharp breath left me, for there was something bitterly striking about the shoes. The items were studded with golden familiarity, and they greatly contrasted with the pale, silver hues of the mountains of junk all around us. I had a flashback to a few days ago (a few weeks ago?) in the realm of the living, while I was still on the road to Masada. I had stumbled into a village where they were having a funeral, and the deceased elder in question was lying in an open casket, surrounded by mourning family members. As beautiful violin strings lit the somber air, I had eyed the gold-studded horseshoes that were looped about the old stallion's forelimbs.

They looked like the same horseshoes.

Goddess Celestia, they were the same horseshoes...

The frenzied colt broke briefly out of the fight, lunging forward from an angry pony's blow to the back of his skull. When he fell chest-first into the hillside of junk, the spirit's eyes fell on mine. We made contact—a dead heart and a living one—and for the briefest of moments there was no anger, no sorrow, no pity. There was only abject terror, for we both knew what this was about, as well as what it would be about for the next few unfathomable eons.

So involved was I in sharing this colt's stare that I was unaware of the angier ponies' shifting attention. The souls who had fought so ardently for his horseshoes were now pivoting to face me. Sure enough, beloved Vinyl, they saw my cloak and music cases, and the jaded glaze to their eyes melted under a forest green spark of covetousness.

And then they charged me.

I stumbled back, hyperventilating. I heard shouts—not just from the throng of bullies ahead—but from all around me. My living essence shone forth like a beacon, and I didn't even need to be bleeding. I was suddenly very real and very rich: two things that are more delectable than honey in the pits of Hell.

I spun and dashed downhill, hoping that gravity would still work in my favor. It mattered little, for the crowd of purgatorial ponies was closing in from all angles. Unless I sprouted wings all of the sudden, there would be no way of escaping them.

I thought for a brief moment of whipping out Starswirl's Tome and finding a spell that might help me evade them. But no sooner had that contemplation passed when they were upon me. A vicious blow struck me in the ribs. Then a filly charged in, head-butting me in the skull. My vision flashed with bright light, and when I came to I was lying on my back with dozens upon dozens of forelimbs clambering all over me. They pulled and yanked at the cloak, trying to get at my saddlebag and music cases below. The stale air was filled with the shrieking sounds of angry children, as if a riot had broken out at a purgatorial schoolyard and I was the brunt of every horrible prank imaginable.

Their punches and kicks were no joke, however. I was coughing up glowing blood before I could even sit up. By then, I heard the tearing of fabric. In a fitless shriek, I spun about, fearing that my letters to you had been shred apart. Instead, I saw that my good cloak had been torn down the middle. Two colts were already yanking at my saddlebag while a filly was biting on the edge of my violin case with her teeth. By the time two foals were grabbing for the Tome of Ending, I had lost all composure.

I yelled back at them, flinging my dainty hooves in a vain attempt to knock them back. It was a foolish thing to do. They were pure spirits—and infinitely more capable of damaging my flesh and blood than I was of harming them. I was reminded of this by a violent shove that a colt gave to my flank. I rolled over twice and felt my cello case slipping free. I protested, hearing the voice of my childhood ringing out through the darkness. The ringing in the air intensified. If a dumpster had fallen into the belly of Tartarus, I had no doubt these lifeless wretches would have ripped Chocolate's body apart for his whiskers.

I saw equine shadows galloping away in the light of pyres. The shape of a cello case dangled behind them. I felt like sobbing. A desperate part of me almost prayed to the alicorns. Almost...

But just then...

With a shout that could frighten the ghosts out of veteran soldiers, an immense thunder roared through the shuddering piles of refuse. Everypony froze in their tracks, shrieking together as if replying to the noise with one falsetto note. I saw the mountains of debris shift and bulge beneath us, as if a gigantic torpedo was rippling through the heterogenous rubble.

My heart stopped. When I stood on my feet, it was in a cold sweat, for I had read enough of Starswirl's tome to know what—and who this was.

When the chaos lord emerged from the messy ground, it was like a whale leaping majestically with a bursting spray of pale garbage. The first thing that lit the stale air was his spreading antlers, across each branch of which hung glittering necklaces and rings and rubies. His bearded maw hung open with a grinning hiss, as if he wasn't even remotely afflicted with despair from his eternal imprisonment, and instead he was exhaling the same frozen laughter that had begun at the Dawn of Harmony. I watched as the serpentine creature surged higher and higher into the air, wondering when the length of the leviathan's body would end.

But it didn't, and with each second that surged by, so did his flesh, and every few feet there was another mouth—just as gaping and hungry and ravenous as the one previous. Hundreds of mouths with tens of thousands of teeth glinted in the pale air, their vaporous breaths hissing into the pyres as they spat on the scrambling ponies below. His shrieks fed on their fear, and they gave into his gluttonous demand just as faithfully as they had given into their own.

The alicorns gave the First of the Five a name: "M'rhysahylennem," the Wyrm God of Avarice.

Starswirl claims that he is as terrifying as he is absurd—a creature with no wings to fly but with selfishness so great that he scoffs at gravity. I didn't take his words seriously until I saw the chaos lord for myself, and if I had urine to spare I would have christened the first chamber with the humility of a convert.

M'rhysahylennem was so long and so terrifying that his swirling bulk eventually filled the air like the contrail of a Wonderbolt. The many mouths dribbled the chewed-up detritus that they had carried with them through miles upon miles of shifting debris. I winced and shielded myself with my forelimbs as many chunks of sundered treasures fell down on top of me. In my stumbling, I found my cello case. It was discarded the very moment that M'rhysahylennem had appeared and frightened the souls into scampering.

To my immeasurable joy, the thing was still in one piece. I snatched it up immediately and ran towards the top of a burning hill. I found that none of the hapless souls were around me, and that was my first clue that things were about to become terribly complicated.

With a thosuand-fold shrieks, the Avarice Wyrm spun about in the air. I felt his shadow upon me. Soon, I would be the subject of his greed, and I feared that I was far too small to feed his many, many jaws. I stopped once I was besides a burning pyre and stared up at his descending form. Like a giant serpent, the chaos lord dove towards me, his bejeweled antlers shimmering in the pale light.

I understood then, Vinyl, what I couldn't understand before I had descended into Tartarus. The mind of pure greed knows no relief, only constant hunger. You have made me full in life, dearest Vinyl. Our days together fed me with greater nourishment than any mare could ask for. My hunger for you now is a matter above greed—of this I am certain. If it was something so base, I would have given up as soon as I read the truth in the Tome of Ending.

And the truth is that what I have brought myself here for, the one reason for why I came to Tartarus to begin with, was to bestow a gift, and no single creature—neither god or mortal—will get in the way of my generosity.

For this reason, I brought the cello, the remnant of my past life, the single sliver of my dying adulthood. With the limbs of a foal, I opened the case. Remembering the words of Starswirl, I brought a blade to my hoof and spilt blood. The pain was brief—as is the nature of all righteous wounds. I leaked my glowing essence onto the strings of the violin, the musical chords of my jpast, sprinkling the gift of song with something M'rhysahylennem hadn't fed on for millennia.

It was too scrumptious and harmonious a thing for the harbinger of chaos to give up. With a thousand ravenous shrieks, he dove upon it. M'rhysahylennem snatched the cello in the first of many jaws, his massive body burrowing back into the ground just a few rumbling feet ahead of me. My mane and cloak billowed from the frictious force of his serpentine body soaring into the fresh tunnel made in the mountainous refuse. After two minutes, when his descent was fully commited, I stood upon the echoing fringes of thunder, listening to the high pitch of my labored breaths.

There was something cleansing about the deaffening silence, as if I had emerged from a baptism with my ears cleaned by the riverwater. After hours, days, even weeks of wandering the wastelands of trash, my body had shrunk so much, and it was only then that I felt as if such a huge weight had been given off.

I'm not ashamed to say that I smiled, Vinyl. I was glad—yes—I was quite happy to be rid of that ridiculous cello. It was too unbearably heavy by then anyways. With ease, I tucked my violin and saddlebag beneath what was left of my cloak and climbed down the fresh tunnel. In M'rhysahylennem's swift departure, the chaos lord had unwittingly carved me a path towards the base of the chamber.

What a generous gift,
-Octavia






















Beloved Vinyl,

I may feel weightless, but that doesn't make this descent any less perilous. Unlike M'rhysahylennem, I am not a gravity defying Wyrm of Chaos, so following his path towards the base of the first chamber has been a troublesome task, to say the least.

Thankfully, though, the tunnel that he has carved has many detours—undoubtedly capillaries that the chaos lord had carved in the past when he had gorged a lot less and was decidedly more slender. I see the teeth-marks of his thousand-fold mouths carved into the wood, metal, linen, and cork of the bric-a-brac all around me.

This most certainly is not any usual form of spelunking. The horn of Wh'lynsehaym lights the tunnels ahead of me in a pale glow, illuminating every dangling piece of junk, every ramshackled piece of furniture, every heap of glittering odds and ends that can be found.

It's not a very easy thing to describe, Vinyl. Imagine—if you will—that some cosmic being had managed to scoop up all of the most valuable possessions ponydom has ever had. And then said deity tossed such items into a giant rusted waste bin and stomped on it until the material was densely packed together. Then, a gigantic serpentine creature of dragonequine essence had proceeded to bore its way through the path like some titanic earthworm, easily melting through the rattling clutter of toys and trinkets as if having vomited a froth of acid straight through the densest core of the mountain.

So, as you can imagine, venturing downward through this mess is a journey beset with falling debris and precipitous rubbish. I've been bombarded with mildew-stained suitcases, threadbare suits, worn saddles, piles of mangled silverware, jaded porcelain beads, old Hearth's Warming ornaments, pocketwatches, purses, and all manners of diamond studded heirlooms.

As I pass through these unearthly chambers, I hear the faint hints of angry shouts echoing up towards me. Even right now—as I pause to rest in an alcove formed by a silver-varnished upside-down stagecoach, I hear the tell-tale noise of furious squabbles above, below, and to the sides of me. Through the bulging walls of this subterranean junkyard antfarm, ponies are still fighting, struggling, and feuding for every square inch of the mess, as if there's a single true trinket of value to be found amongst the whole lot.

It is now that I realize that when I first landed on the cluttered summit of this chamber's ramshackled landscape, I had quite literally graced the barest surface of this portion of Tartarus. The true heart of this purgatory is far deeper, and the spirits trapped here live in a three-dimensional limbo, constantly battling their way upwards and downwards through the mess in an endless cycle of absurd competition.

Much like with M'rhysahylennem, the pull of gravity has no effect on them. Much rather, they are driven by their greed. It sucks the energy from them, stripping all meaning out from beneath what's left of their beleaguered mind. I greatly suspect that their stay in Hell will be the longest, for they know not the source of their misery, only that they want more of it.

If there's anything that I've learned in life, Vinyl, it's that the more one fixates on misery, the more one will be drowned in nothing but that.

All the more reason why I'm elated to have found you. The best gifts one receives are the ones that are least expected... or even requested. I'm so glad that I was a humble pony when I was awarded you, my love. I am also glad that the thought of you—and the act of writing these letters—has allowed me to find that core of myself that was once so precious, so that I might find my center and allow righteous gravity to pull me back along the course.

For I was so very close to becoming one of them. It was a very frightening exercise, albeit a necessary one. I know now that while my flesh and blood may very well be a major part of me, my spirit stands to be as vulnerable and frail as the prisoners of this place.

I must guard myself well. Thank you, my darling, for being my faithful steward all this time.
-Octavia








Dearest Vinyl,

Just when I thought that I had gotten used to once again having the limbs and muscles of a foal, I come upon the first of many impasses, and it made my petite knees shake upon the sheer sight.

About a dozen hours into my sojourn, the tunnel that I was navigating opened up into a monumental chasm. This was no simple cavern, Vinyl, but a colossal, all-encompassing void that appeared out of nowhere.

It was in here, and not atop the spacious surface of the chamber, that I finally came to terms with the true enormity of Tartarus. From my position upon the cliff of precariously hanging junk, I gazed forth and saw large, continental plateaus of layered scrap, stretching for hundreds of miles in every direction. In the glow of randomly lit pyres along the alabaster walls, I saw looming mountains of purgatorial waste. From a distance, the squirming dots of ponies waged ceaseless battles over hills of silver treasure. Tug-of-war duels populated the far-off, looming cliff-faces, and it was not uncommon to see dozens upon hundreds of ponies fall off the edges, screaming to their plummeting fate. Their spiritual effluence disappeared into the shadows below, where they would undoubtedly splash apart in glowing ribbons before coalescing and repeating the violent melee once and twice again.

To think that all of this spacious grandeur of horror exists within a singular compartment of a revolving machine utterly astounds me. I struggle to comprehend the unfathomable number of alicorns who had died to construct this prison.

As I stumbled down the winding cliffface in search of another tunnel, I had to keep careful guard of my balance. Unlike the souls across the chasm, or Starswirl himself for that matter, if I were to fall, there would be no coming back.

The journey became even more hectic as I came upon a bridge of sorts. I do not speak of a series of wooden planks with a concrete foundation, but rather a haphazard isthmus of land formed by an upside down collapsed house and several stagecoaches. I crawled through a bathroom window and trotted my way across a lopsided shower stall. By the light of the Tome's horn, I navigated a wall full of shattered picture frames and squeezed through a kitchen door to find that the body of a royal zeppelin had crashed through the building frame. I walked the deck—careful not to slip on a spilled trunk full of rusted bits—and walked along the precarious side of what I would later discover to be the remnants of a bank vault.

Beyond this, I found a steep hill made out of oaken furniture and queen-sized bed mattresses. At the base of this incline, I was startled to see a group of colts and fillies looting a lopsided confectionary full of spilled candy jars. I snuck past the riotous lot with relative ease and snuck my way into a steep ravine formed by twin ridges of piled up silken dresses. From then, the journey became a deliciously lonesome one yet again. I discovered another tunnel made by M'rhysahylennem and his many mouths, and my descent went on with a great deal less mishap.

My dear Vinyl, I have yet to fully ascertain the truth length of my journey. I should have expected that there would be several obstacles ahead, but there's only been so much that the words of Starswirl the Bearded could give me. He and Feathermane must not have truly expected that a soul like mine would venture so far and so willingly into the bowels of this dreadful place.

But, then again, neither of those righteous souls ever had the good grace of loving somepony.
-Octavia