//------------------------------//
// Convergence 
// Story: The Kindest Silence 
// by horizon 
//------------------------------//

Pinkamena Diane Pie stepped back and allowed herself a moment of quiet pride. Nothing so unseemly as a smile, of course. Just the satisfaction of a job well done.

She'd had to ignore the dinner bell and stay out well past dark, but the entire south field was ready for rotation. Thousands of rocks were piled in a perfect pyramid that a good morning buck would scatter to the east. Her father would be so proud — it would save the family a whole day in the midst of a tough harvest season. It was a moment like this, he had said, that had led to his Cutie Mark.

Pinkie wondered if she was going to get a Cutie Mark out of this. The prospect caused a cold twisting in her gut that made no logical sense. A Cutie Mark was a good thing, right? It had to be. It would make her job easier and her father prouder.

She shifted her hooves uncertainly, and one hoof came down on a pebble she'd missed.

Pinkie sighed. She was hungry, tired, and sore, and didn't relish the thought of her carelessness forcing her to make another trip up the pyramid. She shoved her uneasy questions back into the dark corners of her mind, then flipped the pebble up in the air with her teeth, turned around, and carefully lined up a buck that would send it to the top of the pile. Hoof impacted stone with a solid thump, and the tiny rock sailed in an arc toward its target.

Then froze in midair.

Pinkie barely had time to blink, staring at the stone, before a wave of silence slammed into her. Well, not slammed exactly. It was like the rumble of an earthquake turned inside-out: a profound and complete lack of motion or sensation. There was a delicate whooshing noise in her ears, which she realized with a start was her veins singing in time to her heartbeat, so complete was the stillness of the world. Slowly, the stone she'd bucked began yielding to gravity's embrace, accelerating straight down before bouncing down the slope of the pyramid.

Sound gradually returned as the pebble descended — its bounces marked by the satisfying clack of granite on granite — and by the time it rolled to a stop at her hooves, the vertigo of the silence had passed. In its wake, however, remained a gnawing question: what was that?

Pinkie glanced back at her hips. Nothing. But if that hadn't been her Cutie Mark, then …

She swallowed, staring down at the pebble, then up at the top of the pyramid. All of her doubts rushed out of the shadows at once, and a deep and obvious and terrible thought gripped her: The pebble was her.

She had tried so hard to get to the top of the pile, to be just another stone indistinguishable from her pile of ancestors, but whatever had kicked her into life had been misaimed. She just wasn't cut out for this endless grey routine. She could feel it, on occasion, when she bounced in complete silence off of some chore or another; for a few days she'd regain some altitude as she worked extra hard to convince herself that she was content, but that just meant that she had further to fall before the next impact.

Pinkie stared at the pebble — the rolling stone that had left the pile entirely — as the pieces all fell into place. There was a faint tingling in her hip, bittersweet and final and with the faint scent of destiny, and she knew exactly what it was without having to look.

She swallowed, and spoke for the first time in two days: "I'm getting out of here."









For the tiniest, most fleeting moment, everypony was looking elsewhere, and so Applejack — Jacqueline Orange, she reminded herself — seized the opportunity.

She surreptitiously reached up to her throat and tugged at her collar.

Immediately, she was rewarded by a breath — a full breath — of sweet, sweet air. Too-sweet air, cluttered with perfumes and colognes that collided awkwardly with the savory scents of roasted vegetables to leave behind a miscegenated odor combining the most nauseating aspects of its parents. She almost regretted loosening her choker … but then, they were just moments from dinner, and boy howdy if she wasn't starving.

… Dear me, but she was starving.

The endless pretensions of city life were hard.

But this was it … the big payoff. Eating at the shoulders of Manehattan's elite! Her new family had coached her endlessly for this moment — worked so hard to give her a fresh start despite her rough beginnings — and … and … and they hadn't warned her about this, at all. Jacqueline stared as the silver cloche lifted from the serving tray, and the artfully plated bite-sized morsels were floated to the table in front of her. All two of them.

This was a meal? This was what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life?

Aunt Orange subtly nudged her shoulder, smiling a little too brightly. "Isn't this wonderful, Jacqueline?"

Jacqueline bit back her devastation, plastering the same perfect smile back on her muzzle, and parroted back exactly what she was supposed to say: "        "

She blinked, and tried again. "        ?" The room fell to perfect silence around her. Ponies began glancing around nervously; a few others opened their mouths, but similarly, no sound came out.

Her heart began to hammer behind her ears, and she had just enough time to panic over somehow breaking not just the bounds of propriety but of reality itself before the negative pressure receded from her ears and the murmurs started.

And in that moment — with the universe itself having denied her the easy lie — she knew exactly what she had to say.

Applejack grabbed her collar and yanked, buttons popping free and the catch bending away as the miserable torture device came undone. "I'm awful sorry, Aunt Orange," she said quietly but firmly. "I ain't never been more miserable in my life. I wanna go home."









It was quiet. Too quiet. So quiet that the soft sussurus of circulating blood, the uncertain flutter of Spike's young heart, echoed louder than the noises from outside his shell.

His world had always been dark, warm, and silent, but never this silent — nor this cool, nor this bright. Everything was wrong, and the terror of that sent an ice through his veins that far outstripped the increasing chill of the shell at the edge of his touch. He uncurled, stretching short, chubby limbs to the shell's edge, seeing their silhouettes obscure the dull orange glow of the sphere that defined the outer edges of his world.

He thumped one palm on the shell. More accurately, he struck a palm to it, with a perfect lack of reaction, thump or otherwise — not the slightest sound to accompany the motion. That had never happened before. He drew back his arm and hit it harder. Nothing. Spike braced himself against one side of the shell, coiled his hinds, and then shot them out against the smooth surface —

— which split with a crack, his claws shooting through into the vast void of the Outside.

Spike jerked his legs back in, and the motion overbalanced him, the world suddenly upending itself and lurching around. He slammed onto his back, then faceplanted onto the cracked side of the shell, claws scrabbling for purchase. He braced himself and kicked out again, and the shell hinged open, disgorging him into a small depression in a pile of shiny round things that felt immediately comfortable. Spike dug his claws in to the pile, clinging ferociously as gravity reasserted itself in a single direction.

"¿ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ?" a voice said. It was smooth, high-pitched, and while its noises meant nothing to him, they sounded gentle and inviting.

"¿ǝsıou ƃuıʞɔɐɹɔ ǝɥʇ ɹo 'ǝɔuǝןıs ǝɥʇ?" a different voice replied. It was deeper, gruffer, much more like the deep rumblings that had lulled him to sleep on many a warm, cozy night in his shell.

"ǝsıou ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ pǝuɹǝɔuoɔ ǝɹoɯ ǝןʇʇıן ɐ ɯ,ı," the high and fluid voice said.

A fierce point of light shone into his eyes, blinding and disorienting him. Then a more diffuse light wrapped itself around his entire body, and gravity went all floaty again. The pile of small discs receded, and as the spots cleared from his vision, he found himself hovering face to face with two gangly-limbed quadrupeds with curious flat surfaces where their claws should have been. Most of their bodies were armored in a layer of gleaming scales, like his, but the scales had a curious lack of scent. Their broad, brightly-colored muzzles were fuzzy, ringed by equally brightly-colored manes, and they stared at him with wide eyes.

"ɐıʇsǝןǝɔ ʇǝǝʍs," the deep-voiced one breathed.

"¿ƃƃǝ uɐ ƃuısıɐɹ sɐʍ ǝɥs ¿ƃƃǝ uɐ?"

"ǝpɐɔǝp ɐ ɹoɟ sn ƃuıʍoןןoɟ ǝq ןן,ʇı noʎ uo sʇuıɹdɯı ƃuıɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ɟı ˙ʞɔınb 'ʞɔɐq ʇı ʇnd."

Spike sank back toward the pile of discs and the glow around his body receded. He chirped and crawled back toward the fuzzy fake-scale things, reaching the nearby one and clinging to the meaty tree trunk of its leg. Nothing in the world outside the shell made any sense, but he liked the funny glow the fuzzies had made around him, and the way the smaller one pulled back its teeth at him, and the soothing cadence of their speech.

A hoof tousled his crest. "¿pɐq os ǝq ʇɐɥʇ pןnoʍ?"

Spike rubbed his muzzle against the leg and clung a little tighter, a quiet rumble building in his throat. If these amazing feelings were what life was like outside of the shell, he didn't want to let go … ever.









Rarity had long since given up fighting. She was now miles from civilization, her rear bruised and her body filthy, leaving a trail in the dust behind her like a surgeon's scalpel slicing across the southern wastelands. The sun had set half an hour ago. And yet the cheerful glow of destiny kept its iron grip on her horn, dragging her out to stars knew where.

She did have to admit, she thought, that there was something stirring about this. Her surreal detour was wrecking her project to improve the school play's costumes, yes, but maybe that was the point; she'd been driving herself crazy about it all day and long into the night, and didn't every filly secretly dream of being swept up out of their mundane lives and mundane worries into some grand and magical adventure? Maybe she was being dragged, like Batmare following the Bat-signal, to a pony in need of assistance only she could provide! Maybe her horn had attuned itself to the relic of a long-lost ancient civilization deep inside a trap-filled buried temple! Maybe it was pulling like one pole of a magnet toward the other, and she'd meet the colt who was destined to one day be her true love! Or maybe …

The glow around her horn faded. She slid to a stop. She blinked. She blinked again. She stared at the enormous silhouette crowding out the sky.

"A rock?" she said out loud. "That's my destiny?!"

And the universe met her with a perfect, inarguable, ineffable silence.

Rarity stared some more.

"Heh," she said.

A wave of helpless laughter bubbled up from her throat, followed by another, and soon the convulsions seized her side. She sank to the ground, tears streaming down her face, hoof pounding the dusty earth, body wracked by the mirth which was the only possible response to the insanity of it all.









Sunset Shimmer stared through tear-blurred eyes at the tall, regal mare who, until five minutes ago, had been the closest thing to a mother she'd ever had.

"You used me," she hissed.

Celestia delicately tilted her head. "That's not true," she said, tone measured and infinitely gentle. "Why would you think that? What's wrong, my faithful student?"

"Liar!" Sunset shouted, lunging at Celestia's immovable form and backing away, like a wave crashing against a cliff. "When were you planning on telling me about your sister trapped in exile? How long were you going to shape me into your perfect little hero just so you could send me to free her for you?"

Celestia's composure shattered.

"Sunset," she said, fear for the first time shading into her expression. "It's not like that —"

"It's exactly like that!" The room was starting to blur as tears overtopped the dam of her eyes. "Thirty foals in the orphanage and you picked the one with 'the highest magical potential'! You don't think I never saw the letter?"

Celestia swallowed and tried again. "I picked —"

"You're just like all the others! You pretend to care because I'm useful —"

"Sunset, stop. Please."

But she couldn't let herself. Not now — not if she didn't want to collapse into a quivering ball at Celestia's betrayal. "We were supposed to be family," Sunset growled, lower jaw trembling. "I thought you understood, because you were alone, just like me. So I learned everything I could for you. I wanted to be perfect for you. I wanted to be enough for you."

Celestia lifted a hoof, her eyes locked in Sunset's gaze. "If you'll just —"

"Well, you know what?" Sunset screamed, preparing to whirl and flee. "I don't              "

She blinked and worked her jaw. Celestia's mouth moved, lips silently forming her name.

Sunset squared her shoulders and tried again: "                "

Then her ears popped, and the rushing air of her sharp breaths punctured the silence, and the distant noises of the courtyard started filtering in again through the tower window.

Sunset broke the stare. "… What was that?" she said, deeply shaken, muzzle swiveling toward the darkness outside.

There was a rustle of wings and a rush of air. The world lurched. Sunset squeaked as hooves clamped around her barrel and a broad, white neck curled fiercely around hers.

"Sunset," Celestia whispered, and Sunset realized with a start that the neck underneath Celestia's cheeks was wet. "I lost Luna once, through my own arrogance and carelessness. Please … I beg you. Don't let me lose you too."

Sunset's resolve crumpled.

Moments later, two lost and lonely ponies were sobbing in each other's embrace, under the thin light of a waning moon.