Myths and Birthrights: Anthologiae

by Tundara

Sol's Rune, Part One

Author's Note:

Well, here it is at last. Two months later than I'd originally hoped when I first started work on this story. My intentions had been to present it as a 'gift' for my birthday. That did not happen as it took far more work to hash out the problems with the initial draft. I am far, far happier with the version presented here than with what I'd originally put to the page. I just hope future stories and chapters do not take nearly so long.

For ease of reading I've broken the story into two parts.

Please, leave comments as they really help give me the energy to carry on with the next story, or chapter.

Sol’s Rune, Part One
By Tundara

Sol descended slow that night, the sun petulant and pouting as she was guided past the western edge of the disc. Celestia couldn’t help but shake her incorporeal head at how Sol lingered a few seconds longer just beyond the town of Sun Rest, that most westerly of places clinging to one of the spurs holding the disc like a clasp.

Content that her duty was done for the evening, Celestia began to fall back towards the disc, only to draw to a halt as she sensed the rapid approach of Twilight from the north. She wished she could spend even a few minutes talking with her, but time was something she had in short supply that evening. Still, she managed to spare a little time, enough to placate Twilight with a promise that they’d talk more soon. With a parting little tease involving stalking spirits, she resumed her fall back towards her body.

Normally, that would have meant Canterlot, but for the past few weeks she had been traveling, visiting places across the disc while looking for a way to undo the curse she herself had placed inadvertently upon a certain filly. The newest lead had sent her south, beyond the roaring southern oceans with their driving winds that would smash unwary ships upon floating islands of ice.

Unlike what popular Equestrian belief would say, the southern continent itself was not a white waste of ice and snow. It wasn’t even frozen the entire year, having a normal seasonal shift like anywhere else on the disc, save the ice shelf running along the southern most rim. Rich pine forests covered the land. Fed by the almost continual rains and storms that battered the coast, the land was wild and untamed. Setting hoof on the shore was like traveling fifteen hundred years into the past, to when the migrant unicorn fleet had been lead to Equestria by Clover the Clever.

Celestia regretted not joining the fleet herself. Perhaps she could have provided some protection against the cruel onslaught of the long winter, as she’d done in the east. Luna had needed her, however, and Celestia would not abandon her little sister. So instead she’d carried Luna far from the war and ice ravaged lands of the Old Queendoms to the comparatively blissful domains of the Canternese and Neighponese.

How would things have been different if she’d left Luna in the care of their mortal aunt’s descendants, and returned to help the ponies of the west?

Thoughts for another time.

That sunset found Celestia half a day inland, wandering down a winding trail. The unpredictable winds made flight a choir, and besides, the forest canopy hid all the path’s markers. There was a gentle, supernatural quality to the forest, the air ripe and primal with untaped aether. And yet, an element of danger lingered, a sensation of the woods watching her.

It made Celestia feel a little bit like she was inside the stories her aunt Iridia used to tell. Stories of the early years of Ioka, during the Ancient Era between the time Leviathan swallowed Marelantis and the rise of the daughters of Thuelesia, in a period of high adventure as the disc tried to settle.

So many heroes and villains had filled those old stories, their deeds forging nations and inspiring legends and myths that had stretched across the ages. Now, none were remembered except by the goddesses.

A shift in the wind brought the scent of pine, damp peat, moss, and rotting flesh. The last belonged to the carcass of a brown bear, a young sow. By the look of things, the poor bear had died a week or so earlier, and the lingering traces of magic around the body made the cause was plain; a spirit had felled the bear, and for sport, no less. Beyond the mortal wounds and slow decay, the body was untouched, even other predators giving the area a wide berth despite the free meal.

Few spirits actively hunted, and far fewer also made their homes on the southern shelf. A vetfrir was the most likely culprit. Spirits of frost and winter reminiscent of large wolves, they were supposed to be protectors of the forests and heralds of winter. Long the enemies of the demonic windigoes, few vetfrir remained on the disc, their numbers obliterated during the Age of Ice four and a half thousand years before Celestia was born.

Celestia huffed, her breath puffing out in a fine mist. She eyed the drifting cloud with distrust, her ears swiveling in search for any sound of pursuit. It’d been a half-joke when she’d told Twilight that a spirit was stalking her. Now, her words seemed precognitive.

The rustle of a bush gave her pause, the ethereal strands of her mane prickling. A rabbit jumped from beneath the ferns, the critter stopping to twitch its nose up at her. Not placated by the rabbit’s appearance, Celestia cast her attention to the rain soaked woods around her, especially those behind.

The intensity of the rain grew, as it had every night in this land, masking any other sounds beneath its gentle patter and making it impossible to identify any that might indicate pursuit. If only Selene would rise faster and cast her silvery light down upon the forest. Instead, shadows surrounded her, their shapes long and twisted, rattling in the wind.

Haunted forests were nothing new to her. She’d wandered many in her younger, more adventurous youth. While Luna was in the east learning the ways of their father and mortal ancestors, Celestia had taken an interest in the old places of the disc, the magical fonts that predated all known civilizations, when Ioka was still growing. The shadows and what they hid held no fear over her. Still, there was no sense in being caught off guard.

Concentrating a moment, she conjured a ball of light, a clone of her dear Sol in miniature.

Letting the golden glow settle over her, Celestia continued forward, still alert for any surprises. Her ears swiveled constantly, snapping towards any sound that seemed out of place. A few times, she stopped, certain that she’d caught a hint of paws pounding on brittle frozen ground and heavy, panting breaths, only to lose it in the driving rain.

Stopping in a small clearing where she could look up and see the rising moon, Celestia turned to peer back the way she came. Thick puffs of mist clung close to the hard soil, the rain freezing into stinging sleet.

“Whoever you are, stop this skulking and come out.”

Movement on her left caught the corner of Celestia’s eye. A quick snap of her wings and kick carried her away from swiping claws. Not quite fast enough, the vetfrir caught her, a crooked line gouged down her left brow over her eye, cheek, and to the edge of her jaw.

A sharp intake of breath filled her lungs as she was half-blinded by blood and a flap of skin. It had been a long time since Celestia had last been hurt, long enough for her to forget the details. The pain was curious, a fiery sting lancing across her face. Had she the time, she might have taken a few moments to savour the novelty before tending to the wound.

Pressed by the vetfrir, Celestia unleashed a burst of magic that knocked the spirit back and cleared the air. Hail popped into bursts of steam around her, the ground underneath Celestia’s hooves charring as if it’d been host to a campfire.

The vetfrir was quick to pick itself back up, and though it was only a few moments before the spirit lunged at her again, Celestia managed to take note of the vetfrir’s sickly appearance. Green rot and boils marred the spirit’s muzzle. What remained of its once thick white coat, glowing with blue lines of magic, were sparse tufts of dull fur, matted with dirt and waste. Its bare skin hung loose in pox riddled folds.

A blast of foul, rime soaked breath burst through the corrupted spirit’s teeth as it lunged for Celestia’s throat.

Eye locked onto the vetfrir’s sickly yellow orbs, she spun. Celestia’s mane crackled as she called up her magic, it’s normalyl placid tones turning into furious oranges and reds around a white core. Sheathed in her flames, her wing lashed out. A sharp hiss burst through her clenched teeth at the strike, the cold emanating from the vetfrir biting into her wing even as she knocked the spirit aside.

With speed belied by its sickly visage, the vetfrir sprang back to its paws and lunged again. Fiery chains whipped from Celestia’s horn to meet the attack, wrapped themselves around its limbs and throat, and tethered it to the ground. Yanked into a sharp stop, the spirits jaws snapped shut only a few inches from Celestia’s impassive face.

She took a few steps back, well aware that the chains would not hold her opponent long.

“What is wrong with you? Perhaps I can aid you.”

The chains sizzled, cooking the flesh where they bound the vetfrir. There was no intelligence within those eyes, nothing but hunger and hate twisted into a knot by some terrible spell that crawled just beneath the skin. A curse, from the lingering sulphurous taint that clung to the spirit, and a powerful one at that, to so completely overpower the spirit’s will.

Determined to help the maddened thing, Celestia asked, “What did this to you?”

Spittle flew from the vetfrir, splattering against Celestia’s golden shoes. It howled and clawed, straining as the chains cut deeper into its hide. Celestia pitied the poor, mad spirit. Cracks began to worm their way through the chains, the vetfrir’s frost working into the conjured metal and snuffing out the flames.

“Please, let me help you. There must be a way to save you.”

Celestia’s offer only drove the spirit to thrash harder. She winced. Her mind raced to find an answer that did not end with her destroying the spirit. There had to be some way to save it.

It could have been under the curse for decades, or even centuries. A primordial, feral light was all that remained in eyes that once would have shone with cunning and wisdom. The look reminded Celestia of the one Nightmare Moon had carried as they’d stared each other down during their final battle.

If only the Elements were not once again dormant, and she was still able to harness their powers. They could heal the spirit.

But then Celestia would not have left Equestria at all.

Only one other available answer presented itself, though it was not without risks.

Unless she killed the spirit.

The idea twisted her stomach into knots.

She was no stranger to killing. She’d led armies, fought hundreds of campaigns in dozens of wars… and worse. The annihilation of an entire society still weighed heavily on her heart, even though it had been an accident seventeen centuries in the past. No, ending the lives of others was something she knew well.

Decided, Celestia released the vetfrir. The spirit lurched, stumbling and unprepared for its sudden freedom. The confusion passed quickly, and it lunged, howling, at Celestia.

“I will save you,” Celestia promised softly as she called up her flames.

This time it met a wind of pure, divine fire rolling in waves down the sides of Celestia’s neck before being cupped by her outstretched wings, and launched into the spirit’s path. Buffeted by the bellowing sheets, the vetfrir was sent sliding back, paws clawing furrows in the loose earth. For some hundred yards behind it, the trees were consumed, pine cones popping like firecrackers and branches blazing like oil soaked torches.

But not the vetfrir itself. Her flames did not burn the spirit. Celestia had no intention of doing so. Instead, she extended her essence through her flames, using them as a shield and hooves to run across the spirit’s body. Maintaining such a precise balance of effects was not a common practice for her, made all the more difficult by going through a pure extension of herself. There was no other way, no spell capable of giving her the feedback necessary to accomplish the task existed.

Coiled as it was about the spirit’s core, Celestia had no trouble locating the affliction, the curse. Scars ran deep, a winding, rending nexus of lacerations leading to the heart. She followed them into a storm, a place of ravaged shores and a distant mewling plea. Hesitant, fearing to burn the spirit, she searched for the curse. A short gasp leapt from her throat as a wall of deep, crackling hatred sprang up between her bright fire and the spirit’s deep rime.

Her own magic held back with the greatest of precision, Celestia prodded at the wall. A blind assault with all her strength would have utterly crushed it, snuffing it out in a golden roar. For the vetfrir, such a cure could well become a pyre. If she failed to regain control, struck too hard or pierced too deep, the spirit would find no salvation in her flames.

The curse snapped at Celestia’s touch like a feral hound and bit deeper into its host. She applied a little more pressure, just the faintest increase from her perspective, but to the spirit it was the difference between the imperceptible warmth of a candle and the billowing shroud of a bonfire. Closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see the burning forest, Celestia pulled tenderly at the first strand of cursed aether entwining the spirit. It was like trying to separate two discordant songs by using a third.

A pained yelp made her retreat a precious moment and freed the curse to dig itself deeper into its host. Grinding her teeth, Celestia renewed her efforts to free the spirit, but for every strand she managed to pull away two others would entwine themselves through the spirit’s pulsing core. The beats began to dim and the mewls quieted until Celestia feared she’d killed the spirit by mistake.

She did not know what to do, how to unbind the curse. Victory seemed hopeless. A last, desperate attempt was all that remained, and yet, she hesitated.

There was a flash, a bang, and then the vetfrir was gone, all the spirit’s magic exploding into tumbling motes of aether.

She let her wings fall and released a saddened sigh as her flames died, leaving only a thin cloud of smoke and the scent of charred wood. The ground in front of her was hot to the touch, the closest stones glowing a fierce yellow. Where the vetfrir had stood, there remained only a shadow, seared into the stone at its final moment before death.

Another she’d failed.

The soft sound of scuffing paws accompanied by a bitter chill brought Celestia from her thoughts. Out of the undamaged treeline more vetfrir emerged, dozens and dozens, until she was certain that every member of the southern pack surrounded her. They carried no blame in their eyes, just resignation mingled with grief.

Silent, she wished she could at least shed a tear for the spirit. Her guilt sat heavy in her throat, lodged among all her other failures.

They sat there for some time, Celestia and the pack, until the wolves began to move off one by one.

A twinge of pain reminded Celestia of the cut she’d received. Summoning a mirror she set about tending to her wound.

The gash, though long and ugly looking, was minor. A few days—perhaps less—and it would be as though she’d never been hurt. With a simple cantrip, she cauterized the cut and was ready to continue onwards. She hesitated though, her gaze drawn back to the burnt patch of ground.

Eventually she left clearing and continued along the path.

Occasionally, through the boughs, Celestia would catch sight of Selene, the moon’s silver light illuminating her way. Accompanied by the gentle patter of the rain, it allowed Celestia to think of something less worrisome than the troubles that had forced her journey, or those she’d encountered already that eve.

She wondered how Luna and Iridia were getting along. The pair had been close in the old days, many hundreds of years ago, and it was Luna who’d taken their aunt’s fall hardest. Maybe they were patching their frayed friendship. Or maybe they were avoiding each other. Celestia wasn’t certain which was the better outcome.

Regret bubbled at having to leave the two alone in Canterlot without more than a quick ‘good-bye’.

In truth, Celestia had thought that her trip to Sparkle Manor would be brief. Though it was indeed a mere touch-and-go visit, instead of returning home, she’d ended up traipsing across the disc. A cure for the curse she’d cast—Celestia no longer could think of the so-called Fostering Spell as anything else—had lead her to several hidden places and wise-ponies. It had been her stop in Phoenicia that had directed Celestia to the south, and hopefully the solution to her problems were only a few hours away.

Her thoughts shifted, as thoughts are known to do, and danced around many nothings. Sometimes focusing on the cool breeze, other times nit-picking her handling of the vetfrir.

She was certain that saving the spirit should have been easy.

Lost in her thoughts, Celestia didn’t notice her descent into a little, misty dell next to a babbling brook. Nor did she smell the faint traces of fried cabbage and vinegar lingering in the air. The dim flicker of lights through a window also went unseen. The pony skull hanging from a branch, however, Celestia detected at once. This was, admittedly, due in no small part by her walking straight into it.

Stifling a gasp, Celestia beat a hasty few steps back, her wings spread for another fight and eyes darting in the dark for signs of any threat.

No monsters or boogiemares came rushing out of the underbrush, and after a few moments, Celestia began to relax. She nearly started to laugh at her carelessness, but her humour faded as she laid eyes on a hut not ten paces away.

A quaint and homely affair, the hut sat in the shade cast by elder pines, a thick stream of smoke puffing up from the crooked old chimney into the boughs of the trees beneath which it was built. Light filtered out of the windows, golden and welcoming in sharp contrast to the skull totems hanging from the branches or staked along the winding path. The roof was shabby and patched, branches tossed over thin areas in the thatching.

From within the hut came singing, the words muffled together, but the bouncy, almost jaunty melody untouched.

Celestia pinched her brow together, ignoring the flash of pain down her left side the act caused. A moment later she crinkled her nose at the smell coming from the hut. A mixture of toad slime, fermenting berries, and fennel overpowering those of the cabbage and vinegar, it stung the senses and made Celestia’s eyes water.

Behind the more commonplace smells there was another. A scent of old, dark magic lingered in the dell, clutching to the trees and rocks from which it growled at Celestia’s intrusion like a mangy hound. It was not a scent that Celestia could easily forget, and it explained much.

“A hag,” she said to herself, eying the hut with even greater distrust.

She kept her wings half open as she approached the hut, a spell at the ready if the hag proved hostile, as was almost certain to be the case given every past experience Celestia had with one of the wretched crones.

With great care in case there were wards or traps on the door, Celestia placed an ear to the old wood. From the other side came the oddest sound: that of a fife, drums, and dancing, followed by a bouncy, youthful song no hag would have ever been caught singing, heavy with a lisp and high pitched squeak.

“Dance, dance, drink and dance! There be more, me hearties, so drink and dance! The sun and moon know the tune. They sung a’ ocean blue, until she blushed waves a’ o’ange hue! Dance, me hearties, dance! It what we do! Ha-ha-ha! Ah-ah-ah! Ha-ha-HA!”

A trick.

The singing had to be a trick.

Hags were notorious for their tricks and traps. The young filly’s voice bouncing through the wood had to be a trap of some sort.

Taking a deep breath, Celestia brought her magic closer to the ready, a series of evocations set to fire, and opened the door with a forceful push.

The hut’s inhabitant froze mid bound, perched on a single hoof with fife and drums floating in a silver-blue aura to either side.

A willowy creature, at a distance the singer would have been easy to mistake for a common earth pony filly on the cusp of uncovering her cutie mark. Her scraggly mane hanging almost to her hooves in twisted beads beneath an oversized, indigo spotted mushroom cap, combined with rough, milky skin gave her magical nature away. Perched behind a tattered ear was a lotus blossom, black as her eyes. Cracked and chipped hooves were raised up on either side of her head, as if she were frozen in the process of casting a spell. A satchel hung about her neck, still bobbing from her interrupted dance. Gardening implements jutted from the pockets and something green dripped from one corner.

Her wide, surprised eyes met Celestia’s, and with a shriek she fell backwards over an inopportune stool with a tremendous thump, sending the instruments and mushroom hat bouncing.

“Owie…” she moaned, head popping up and rolling as she attempted to regain her bearings.

“You’re a dryath,” Celestia stated with surprise, lowering the magic dancing along her horn.

“What’cha dwath?” the singer asked as she scooted towards the wall, eyes darting to the windows briefly before returning to Celestia. “An’ who you?”

Introducing herself sans any titles, Celestia took a seat in the corner nearest the door, in case the dryath made to escape. The action seemed to placate the skittish creature a little. She left the wall and edged a little closer, eyes wide with curiosity, but a pinched frown on her muzzle.

“A dryath,” Celestia explained, falling naturally into her patient, lecturing tone, “is a type of dryad.”

“Oh.” The dryath scratched her chin, causing loose bark to flake off. “What’cha dwad?”

“They are caretakers of the forests.” Putting on a smile, Celestia indicated the two room hut. “Do you live here alone?”

Following Celestia’s hoof, the dryath shook her head sharply and laughed. “Alone? Nah, papa keeps me company.”

Celestia nodded and relaxed a little herself. For a moment, she’d started to worry that the young dryath, still a sapling no more than twenty or thirty years of age, if she were to guess, was a prisoner of the hag. Where the hag was hiding puzzled Celestia, as did how much weaker the smell of the crones magic was inside the hut as compared to in the dell.

Still wearing her trusty smile, Celestia asked, “What is your name?”

“Name?” The dryath looked confused a few moments as she pulled herself up and flipped her mushroom hat back onto her head. “Oh, I know this! Um… What was it? Papa calls me it all the time. I’ll be singing my songs, and what will he shout?” Up came her hoof to rub her chin some more, eyes pinched with intense thought. “Spotty Menace, that’s it! But you call me Spotty.” Spotty grinned wide as she flopped down onto an old armchair, a large cloud of dust bursting from the worn fabric. “So, what’cha doin’, Salty, in my woods?”

“I came looking for help. I need to find something.”

Spotty’s face brightened at once. She pushed her mushroom hat forward, a smile frightening in its intensity growing across her muzzle. “Findin’ stuff? Gwan is great at findin’ lost things! So, what are you missin’?”

“That I don’t know,” Celestia folded her hooves and gave her wings a little shrug. “I was told I could find something to help me correct a terrible mistake somewhere around here.”

“You don’t even know what you need to find?” Spotty blinked and snickered. “Well, don’t you worry, Salty, Spotty has all sorts of ways to find what you don’t know you lost.”

A leap carried Spotty from her armchair and over a table overflowing with dirty plates and bowls. She landed next to an equally cluttered bookshelf. From the top row Spotty pulled a black tome. The large, thick book oozed darkness like an untended wound would puss. It’s presence made Celestia’s mane prickle.

“Where did you get this?”

“Belong to Gwan. Now belong to me,” Spotty said as if it were as obvious as the mushroom on her head. “Is filled with neat stuff! Spells of all sorts. Just last week a mean ice wolf attacked me when I was getting more toadstools. But I knew what to do! I put a curse on the mean wolf that turned him into a frog so he’d have to leave me alone.” Spotty puffed out her chest and her grin was so proud. There was no hint of malice in her words, though Celestia admitted such feelings would have been hard to detect through the filly’s lisp.

“The curse didn’t last long though. I had just enough time to get my toadstools before he stopped being a frog. I’m not very good at those spells.” Spotty’s ears drooped underneath her hat and she plopped her chin down onto the edge of the table with a loud sigh.

Celestia hummed as she took the spell-book and flipped it around so she could read the pages. She was not surprised to find them filled with Dark magic, the kind that should have been extinct on the disc. The hag must have been a survivor of the Age of Chaos. A very old and powerful hag then.

“What happened to your gran?” Celestia asked as she flipped through the book’s pages.

“Papa killed her.” Much like everything else she’d said, Spotty’s answer was simple and matter of fact. The dryath sapling rested her head on hooves, watching Celestia with unabated curiosity. “Gwan wasn’t very nice, and she was trying to do something bad. Papa came looking for a place to plant my acorn. He said he couldn’t let Gwan do the bad thing, so they fought. But he died too. And then Spotty was born!”

“Your papa is… dead?” Celestia paused in her reading, checking to make certain Spotty wasn’t trying to play games with her.

The dryath was entirely earnest in her response, eyes bright as she nodded. “He didn’t go to the river like other ghosts and stayed with Spotty. He’s over there, grumbling about you being in his chair.”

Spotty jabbed a hoof to a corner between the bookcase and an empty cauldron.

Celestia didn’t need to glance in the direction to know she would see nothing. “He still hasn’t crossed the river?”

“Nope. I keep telling him I’m fine. I have the rabbits and foxes to play with, and all Gwan’s books to read, and my music, but he says that El’s’um can wait until I’m a bit older.”

“That’s very selfless of him. I can see why the archons will let him into Elysium,” Celestia returned her focus to the tome. Poking her nose into the affairs of ghosts was beyond fruitless. Even with all her powers, ghosts existed beyond her sight. Only Luna was able to see the dead, and perhaps Twilight, now that she was Awakened.

“He needs to go. If he stays much longer he’ll become a poltergeist, wraith, or jibberjack,” Spotty said, more to the empty corner than Celestia.

For her part, Celestia gave a little nod and hum in agreement.

After a few more minutes of looking through the book Celestia came to the conclusion that it could not help her. Everything within was decidedly evil, spells that stole lifeforce, beauty, or strength filling pages alongside those that simply tore such things away. Others twisted the recipient into beasts that would attack their loved ones without discretion. Slamming the corrupt tome shut Celestia concluded that it could not remain in the young dryath’s possession.

“Mind if I borrow this book for a while? It's fascinating.” The lie tasted bitter on her lips, and yet it rolled off with such practiced ease.

Spotty just shrugged and gestured with an airy hoof to the shelves. “Sure. I have copies and others to use. Gwan was afraid of ponies trying to steal her books and hid them everywhere. Sometimes I make a game of finding any new hidey spots.”

Heart sinking a little, Celestia patted the evil thing a few times before pushing it aside. The tome was not her goal, and checking in on Spotty from time to time would have to suffice that the knowledge was not abused.

“I’m sorry to ask so many questions, but do you have anything else to find things? Say something that isn’t lost, but has yet to be found? Something inside you, perhaps?”

Spotty blinked a couple times as she watched Celestia, a look of complete befuddlement on her face. Her eyebrows drew into a straight line, chin jutted forward, and a long humm rattled in Spotty’s throat. She tilted her head to one side, mouth open to speak, but reconsidered and tilted it the other while a sort of purr puffed out her cheeks. Celestia could almost hear the ding like an oven timer going off when Spotty’s face brightened with an idea.

“Like the pond?” Spotty jabbed her hoof over a shoulder towards the back of the hut. “When I drink from it I see things. Papa says that I shouldn’t do that anymore, that magic like that is no toy.”

“Pond?”

“Yeah! It sits next to my tree where papa died.” Spotty jumped up and began to trot towards the door, legs swinging in a rolling sideways motion. The lotus blossoms poking out from underneath her hat glowed with a gentle, dark blue magic, lifting up the fife and drums. “Follow Spotty!”

The same jaunty tune from when Celestia arrived began to play as Spotty leapt out the door, the dryath filly hopping from stone-to-stone as she sang.

“Dance, dance, drink and dance. This is the Spotty song. Come. Drink. Dance, dance, dance! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ah-ha-HA!”

“That doesn’t even follow the tune, you know,” Celestia commented with a pleasant smile.

“That’s what makes it fun!” Spotty laughed gaily, her joy infectious, hopping along the path and continuing to insert ad-hoc lyrics to her tune.

Surrounded by a cloud of pure, innocent happiness, Celestia followed Spotty on a very short trek to the grove. A dozen dead willows and one live, tiny, white willow sat around a little dimple filled with silvery water. Selene was so large within the mirror surface of the pond. Celestia could feel its waves of aether tingling across her coat or setting her feathers on edge.

Walking around the pond, Celestia inspected both it and the willows. The dead trees belonged to the original dryads that had called the grove home. Each had been old and strong when it perished, the life snuffed from root and leaf when the dryad bound to the willow died. Infused with magic from their dryad and the pond, rot would never touch any of the trees.

Only one was still alive, the white willow sapling, perhaps no more than twenty or thirty years of age. As the soul-tree of a dryad, or dryath as the case may be, it was tiny in comparison to a normal tree of the same age. It could take a century or more before a dryad and her tree reached maturity.

Celestia glanced back at Spotty, sitting alone on a moss covered rock that jutted out over the pond, happily singing to herself as her instruments floated about her like she were the disc and they the sun and moon. Spotty was trapped. Her tree too old and attuned to the unique magic of the grove to transplant and she unable to leave the forest within which it grew. A sharp pang of sympathy struck Celestia.

At least she had her sister, niece, and now a cousin and aunt for company. Spotty had no-pony. And yet, for what should have been crushing loneliness, Spotty seemed perfectly happy.

Her song, such as the amalgam of randomly shouted words could be considered singing, ended with an abrupt double bang of her drums and a last, hearty, “Ha-ha-ha ah-ah-ah ha-HA!”

“You are going to need more than a drink, Salty.” Spotty fixed Celestia with a deep stare, the laughter replaced in her eyes with a serious light. “The fire of the sun would burn it away quicker than a rabbit that saw a fox.”

“I know,” Celestia extending a wing to touch Spotty on the withers as she stepped past the filly and into the pond.

Comments

[DaQuacken]

"The unpredictable winds made flight a choir, and besides, the forest canopy hid all the path’s markers."
Chore
Celestia’s mane crackled as she called up her magic, it’s normalyl placid tones turning into furious oranges and reds around a white core.
Normally
Only two I could find.
Luckily, errors are so uncommon or minor within your stories that they don't detract from the overall quality.
This world you have built from the vague setting presented in the show never ceases to amaze. Truly, you are a singular author in this genre, Tundara. From the characterization to the world building, this saga you've created leaves little to be desired and the reader wanting more.
That you've taken a leaf from Tolkien, keeping current events clear from the character's perspective, with the references to the past high and remote, is of no consequence. You succeed to over and over again you provide your readers with a fiction that seems very real, that brings you to a window to another world, throws it open and hops through with a merry invitation to follow.
Keep at it, sir, and may the unspeakable curse of writers never find you.

[Imaginaryspace]

I'll be honest and say I like to take every opportunity to lambaste Celestia and here I got the perfect chance to do it...
by pointing out she took the chair of a poor ghost and left him floating in the corner of his home, I mean rude!

[Tundara]

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