• Published 25th May 2017
  • 11,162 Views, 1,341 Comments

Spectrum - Sledge115



Secrets come to light when a human appears, and the Equestrians learn of a world under siege – by none other than themselves. Caught in a web that binds the great and humble alike, can Lyra find what part she’ll play in the fate of three realms?

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Interlude II ~ Child of Crystal

Spectrum

The Team

TheIdiot
Knows How Not to be Seen and Self Defense Against Fruit

DoctorFluffy

VoxAdam
And Now For Something Completely Different

Sledge115
As love finds a place in every heart...

RoyalPsycho

TB3

Kizuna Tallis

ProudToBe

Interlude
Child of Crystal

Dedicated to G.M. Berrow

* * * * *

“Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke up, and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuang Zhou. But he didn’t know if he were Zhuang Zhou who had dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and a butterfly, there must be some distinction! This is called the Transformation of Things.”
Zhuangzi, ‘The Butterfly Dream’

Once upon a time, the Lady crafted three sisters.

It was an age of dragons and icy blight, brought upon by the folly of the First to inherit this world. For the Land itself had grown sick. In aiming for the heights of the Heavens, these great artisans had severed themselves from the ground beneath them, and forgotten its significance.

The Lady crafted the three sisters in her own image, as she herself had been crafted. As stewards, carriers, intermediaries between the world of the spirit and the world of matter.

To the eldest sister was granted the strength and fortitude of the earth, and the ability to see into the firmament of the universe. To the middle sister was granted the grace and vitality of the air, and the charge of carrying the light of day. To the youngest sister was granted the passion and keenness of fire, and the gift to bring comfort in the dark.

Then, sorrowfully, the Lady bid farewell to the Guardian of Joy who reigns in the Frozen North, he who’d been her truest friend when the scales had fallen from her eyes and she saw folly’s extent unveiled. And for a time, the three sisters were left dormant, waiting to be awakened.

Of the eldest sister, nothing can be said. Her task was to be with the world, but not of it. She walked hundreds of years before her younger brethren did, and she watched, yet was not truly awake.

After a long period of Spring, the icy blight returned. For the new keepers of the Land, a triad of tribes who were heir to the Lady and her kin, had in turn fallen into disharmony and disunity. Seeking to flee the biting cold, the tribes’ leaders left to search for a new territory to call home.

Much to their surprise and dismay, alas, the leaders learned they’d each claimed the same spot. Distrust and discord arose once anew, until, driven away by the blight which had followed, the tribes’ leaders sought refuge in a cave. Unable even then to cease their squabbling, they bickered until the blight claimed all three of them.

However, their advisors, wise in ways the leaders were not, understood where folly had led, and at last broke away from repeating the mistakes of the past. As in that cave, the three advisors made their peace, a warmth spread from their hearts, and the blight was banished, and the sinful leaders were thawed from their icy prisons.

And before the leaders and advisors’ marvelling eyes appeared the two younger sisters, infants still.

Seeing the gift they had been given, on that night which came to be known as Hearthswarming, the six witnesses decided these miracle children should be raised by one most worthy. The Guardian of Joy who reigns in the Frozen North, the Bringer of Gifts, friend of the Lady.

He raised them, these infants who grew up to be Princesses of the Sun and the Moon and so did two other sisters, the Guardian of Joy’s own granddaughters, they who are remembered as the Maiden of Snow and the Maiden of Fire.

That story is told elsewhere. It is a story about childhood, of fair maidens and brave princes. But it is not this story. Nor is this the story of how Equestria was made, though it crosses over with Hearthswarming.

The Lady and the Guardian of Joy. Three sisters, six witnesses, and two maidens. All have led to this, as has much else which remains hidden, soon to be revealed.

* * * * *

In the annals of Equestria, the oldest tales speak of how the Princess of the Moon grew resentful as her subjects relished and played in the day her elder sister brought forth, but shunned and slept through her beautiful nights.

Less remembered is how her pain of feeling unloved was furthered by having known love and loss.

To the North, just below where the Guardian of Joy reigns, lay a city of crystal. Once, from the ground below where that city was built, the blight had emerged. Yet now the city shone, a beacon of warmth and hope, holding the blight at bay. And there the Princess of the Moon found love, and what it means to raise a family. After her beloved died, her family flourished for many generations.

Until one day, a vile sorcerer of shadow, who declared himself ruler and was forevermore to be known as the Dark King, spirited away the city of crystal. With it went the family of the Moon.

And such was the youngest sister’s pain and anguish, the bitterness in her heart transformed her into a creature of darkness. This was when she vowed to shroud the Land in eternal night, and reluctantly, her elder sister harnessed the magic of harmony to banish her to the Moon.

With great sadness, the Princess of the Sun took up the Moon’s duties, hoping for her sister’s return, need it take a thousand years.

… Then came a child.

* * * * *

Betwixt North and South, in the land of Oleander, picture a little village named Florentina.

A humble village, and tucked away, mysterious even to its countryfolk. On all four corners, vast woods of pine and acacia shelter Florentina from the wider world. And this is odd, for Oleander, cousin to Equestria, is a coastal country. But the villagers are not unwelcoming to whomever might chance to travel through their home. They simply love the peace and slowness of their lives too much to seek much else.

While Equestria is where the Princess of the Sun dwells, there are places where the Sun shines farther, brighter. Oleander, betwixt North and South, though no true Land of Always Summer, has earned a reputation as such, for it is in Summer the country is at its most glorious. In Summer, the village of Florentina blossoms with the flowers that give it its name. The Sun is a constant visitor to that village, heedless of the woods as it confidently shines above.

It was not in Summer, though, but on a warm evening in Autumn, whilst the Sun was setting behind trees which blocked its light only a little less for having shed their leaves, that the child was found.

The finder was Nonna Espina, the oldest mare in the village. On that evening, she had travelled the forest path, an axe slung over her shoulder, in search of firewood to ready for the Winter. Now this was a task which more properly belonged to Bosco, the woodcutter, but he had newly become enamoured with Brocca, the water carrier. And though Nonna Espina was old, she was lively. She trusted she could take this upon herself, and sooner would do so than get in the way of young love.

Finally the old villager came to a tree that suited her purpose marvelously. Yet just as she raised her axe, she was distracted by the twitter of birdsong. Surprised, she lowered the axe, and the birdsong ceased. But when she sought to resume her work, so did the birdsong, with a rhythm and musicality unheard of in these woods.

Three times did Nonna Espina repeat this, until she looked up and saw the birds perched in the tree. They took flight under her gaze, darting around the trunk. Made curious by the birds’ strange behaviour, she followed, heading down a slight incline.

She knew then their song had been a message to her, a warning. Had she felled the tree, it would have brought harm to an innocent life.

Beneath the tree, nested in a tiny cavern between the roots, her eyes beheld a small bundle. An infant in swaddling-cloth, lying on a bed of dry leaves turned the sunset colour of Autumn, encircled by birds of many feathers of yellow, blue and red. They parted to let the old villager into the cavern.

When Nonna Espina picked up the foundling, she saw that to the cloth, a note was attached with fine string.

Her name is Mi Amore, read the note. Take good care of her. She will take good care of you.

* * * * *

The foundling was a pink filly, her coat as rosey as many a precious flower that Nonna cultivated in her greenhouse. This was her craft, to make flowers grow all the year round, come wind or rain, the shedding of Autumn or the cold blanket of Winter. All her life had been dedicated to flowers. She’d never wished for a child, nor regretted that she’d lived her life unwed.

However, the moment she found the rosey infant, lost and alone in the woods, the old villager understood she could not leave little Mi Amore to her fate.

A child was not a flower. A child could not grow on its own.

So, forgetting her woodcutting entirely, she carefully slung the foundling over her back, and traipsed back all the way to her village. The people of Florentina were most startled to see the bundle she brought back was not twigs, but an infant. Yet she was quick to enlighten them, and very soon, the whole village had been called to confer in the square, amidst the scent of roses.

“What a peculiar discovery!” said Radice, the mayor. “A child under a tree. Whoever heard of such a funny thing? Under a gooseberry bush, maybe, I’ll give you that. But a tree? Curious. Most curious.”

“There were birds all around her,” pointed out Bosco. “Perhaps a stork left her there?”

And Brocca, who had a high opinion of her smarts, told them, “I think you’re both wrong. She had a note tied to her, remember? I say she came straight off the baby shop. Mayhap they felt like giving one out for free?”

In silent amusement, Nonna listened to her kith’s fanciful speculations, for a while. But finally the time came for her to speak seriously.

“My friends, please,” she said. “However she got there, this child was left in the woods. We don’t know how long she was there for. She seems in good health, but now you’re all here, shouldn’t we make sure she’s alright?”

This made them fall silent, until Erba the herbalist, who was nearly as old as Nonna, stepped forth.

“You’re right, Nonna,” Erba said. “If you’d be so kind, would you unravel her swaddling-cloths, gently? I must take a closer look at her.”

Nonna Espina did as he bid, grateful for his delicate touch. But no sooner had she done so did all, herself included, gasp at what the child revealed.

“My goodness…” said Bosco. “And I thought what I said was just a flight of fancy…”

Sure enough, folded upon the sleeping child’s back was a pair of wings.

“What is she?” said Brocca. “She cannot be from around here.”

Erba looked at them all. “I believe I know,” he said. “The child must be from the North... From Equestria. She’s a pegasus.”

His words caused a stir, for none in the village had been to Equestria and only knew it by hearsay.

“How did she get here?” said Radice. “She’s far from home, if she’s from Equestria, poor babe.”

Everyone in the crowd felt their hearts go out to the child, abandoned in a place that was strange to her, with no parents they know of, and no-one like her for leagues around.

At that moment, none was sure what to do.

“Where she came from and how she got here doesn’t matter,” Nonna said at last. “At least for now. What matters is she’s here, on our doorstep. Someone left a note so we’d take care of her… And she’s a child. We cannot turn her away.”

All agreed to this statement.

“But who shall look after her?” asked Radice. “You are old, Nonna, and my days raising children are long past, while Bosco and Brocca… Well, they’ve barely started down that path. And all the rest… We live safe, quiet lives here in Florentina. We aren’t used to big, sudden changes.”

“Then we shall all share a little of her,” Nonna Espina announced, “and that way, no change will be too big or sudden for any of us…”

Cradling the foundling, the old villager looked at her kith with shining eyes.

“She’ll be the child of us all.”

The note had called the infant ‘Mi Amore’. Yet the villagers felt it would be right to also bestow upon her a name of their own.

Because birdsong had led to her finding, she was given a name to reflect this. And thus the child’s name was Mi Amore Cadenza.

* * * * *

The years passed, as they must.

From that Autumn when Mi Amore was found in the woods, the seasons flowed into Winter, then into Spring and into Summer, and then Autumn again. Eleven times did one cycle flow into another. With each cycle, the child grew a little, in size and in knowledge.

The child grew as Nonna Espina had said she would, a child of the village.

As is customary in small, sleepy villages, Mi Amore Cadenza’s youth was not all one of simple prancing and play. That is a fantasy of city folk, who are unknowing that a childhood at play is likelier to be the lot of their own, in the age of schooling the classroom may not always be a place for true learning, yet it spares children from outdoors labour.

In those eleven years, Mi Amore never visited a classroom, but she still learnt much. From Erba the village herbalist, she learnt the names of over a hundred plants, which roots were edible and which were poisonous, or how to tie a herbal plaster. In the manner of villagers, she grew up laborious. She’d help Brocca carry her buckets of water from the spring, and Bosco carry his bundles of twigs. Her letters and numbers, she learnt off Radice, the mayor.

Little Mi Amore did have friends her age, of course. To some places, her wings might have called forth suspicion and shunning, particularly amongst children. And there were those in the village who once in a while did wonder what had brought this foundling to them, and whether she wouldn’t bring misfortune.

But the feathered child proved vivacious and diligent, and so nested herself in all their hearts.

Whenever, at play, one of her fellow children found themselves scraped by the dirt, Mi Amore knew the right words to comfort, just like she knew how to fix myriads little hurts, as she had learnt from the village herbalist.

Two years after Mi Amore was found in the woods, Bosco and Brocca were married, and they had a child of their own, a girl whom they named Benna. As they grew over the years, Mi Amore and Benna were the best of playmates.

Yet the villager whom Mi Amore harboured the closest bond with was one furthest away in age.

Before the filly could even walk, Mi Amore came to know Nonna Espina and her greenhouse. Within this domain coated by glass, which caught the Sun in Summer and kept out the cold in Winter, that the old villager grew her flowers, not merely in the warm months, but all the year round. Buttercups and bluebelles, lilies and daisies, the magnolia and the orchid.

And roses, always roses.

* * * * *

It was one Autumn, as the day that marked the eleventh year since her finding drew nearer, while Mi Amore was in the greenhouse with Nonna Espina, helping her trim the flowers, that she asked the old villager a question.

“Nonna,” said Mi Amore. “Why must there be Winter?”

Up until then, Nonna had been busying herself with the cutters, but now she stopped her work to look in surprise at the child.

“You ask such strange questions, Mi Amore,” said Nonna. “Without Winter, there’d be no Summer, would there?”

“We never let Winter in here,” Mi Amore pointed out, looking over the greenhouse.

“That’s different,” said Nonna, laying down her cutters. “None of these flowers are kept here to stay. Once they bloom, we send them on, to places where it could be any season.”

Mi Amore blinked a little. “I’m still not sure why we stay during the Winter.”

Nonna chuckled fondly. “That’d be the bird in you talking,” she joked. “If I didn’t know you, I’d believe you’re like them swallows, who travel South for Winter and come back in time for Summer.”

“I’m not a bird,” Mi Amore giggled.

This was quite true. When Mi Amore glanced at her wings, they only gave a weak flutter. In nearly twelve years, not once had she been able to fly.

She did not mind. Often, Mi Amore forgot she even had wings. She’d lived like the earthponies who’d raised her and felt no different from them all her life.

“You might as well ask why there’s day and night,” said Nonna. “Even here in Florentina, there must be change. Otherwise it’d be mighty dull, wouldn’t it? Why,” she continued, now staring at Mi Amore. “Don’t you like Winter?”

“No, no, of course I do,” Mi Amore said, as all the things she loved about Winter came flooding back. “I love it! Who doesn’t like to build a snowmare, having snowball fights, making snow angels?”

The old villager considered her.

While it was true these were pastimes enjoyed by Oleander’s children in Winter, Mi Amore had particular zest for them, being the first up every morning and the last inside every evening, at a time when outside of work, even children were prone to wait in somnolence for Summer’s return.

“Those are fine things, indeed,” said Nonna, “though perhaps fighting with snowballs hits a bit too close to war. To create out of snow displays craft, it does. Still, we forget snow is like any blanket. It lays you to sleep. And from one sleep, one never wakes up.”

This was so unusual a statement that Mi Amore stared at her in alarm.

“Oh, Nonna!” said Mi Amore. “You’re not saying you’ll soon lay down to that sleep?”

To her relief, the old villager laughed softly.

“No, have no fear, I believe there are a few years left in this body, before I meet the pale mare of ever-lasting sleep… Yet I wonder about you. With all your snow creations, you may be more alive in Winter than any of us, my dear Autumn child.”

By tradition in Oleander, most infants are born in Summer. On what day Mi Amore Cadenza had truly been born, her carers could only guess. But as in Autumn she had been found, she was known to them an Autumn child.

“So why do you ask about Winter?” said Nonna. “Verily, you’re the last child I’d have expected to ask that question.”

Mi Amore shuffled her forehooves.

“Maybe it’s because it’s in Winter that I feel the most… different.” Again, she glanced at her wings. “You said snow was like a blanket… But I’m not sure that’s how I see it. When it snows, to me, it’s like… petals. A thousand thousand tiny petals, falling from the sky. Except that I know this isn’t what you see. And it makes me feel sad. The village of flowers doesn’t see the petals in Winter.”

Standing as they did amidst the many-hued flowers and the delicate fragrance of the greenhouse, Nonna smiled at her.

“Or could it be you, having learnt our ways, who sees it so?” the old villager asked kindly. “Do not undersell us, Mi Amore. Maybe that’s why you’re Autumn’s child. You live in twilight between Summer and Winter.”

A quiet moment passed between them, as Mi Amore drank in all they’d said. Then Nonna looked through the glass to the fading light outside.

“But on to more practical matters,” said the old villager. “Beautiful as the Winter is, we must be ready to keep warm when it comes. Bosco, I swear… someday that boy’ll neglect his duties entirely, the sheer amount of children he has with Brocca! How many is it now? Six?”

“Five,” Mi Amore corrected. “They’re expecting their sixth.”

“Well, he had better get back to chopping that wood soon, if he wants to keep them all warm," Nonna grumbled lightly. “Shall I trust you with the axe?”

“You can trust me with the axe,” Mi Amore said dutifully. “But I'd have loved to help you trim the Queen Rose.”

The Queen Rose stood at the very center of the greenhouse, a tall beauty of a rose, a good head higher than either of the ponies. Even her thorns, which Nonna insisted be carefully maintained, were distributed with evenness and elegance.

“I am sorry,” Nonna said. “Our talk took time I didn't notice slip from us.”

“Sure you can take care of her without my help?” asked Mi Amore.

Nonna laughed again. “What did I say, child? I’ve been doing this all my life, and I’ve life in me yet. Now, go, before it gets dark.”

On her way out, Mi Amore picked up the axe, wrapped in rope and three layers of cloth. With it thus made safe to carry, she placed it upon her back, as an earthpony would better, in certain respects, for even divested of the power of flight, her wings granted her balance that was lithe and light.

It wasn’t far to the edge of the wood, those same woods where Nonna found her years ago. Mi Amore kept to the outskirts, heeding caution even as she hastened to carry out her chore.

Still, in the fading sunlight, the filly allowed herself a moment's pause, admiring the gossamer she noticed dancing in the warm breeze of Autumn, the light gleaming off of it like golden wire.

Giggling, Mi Amore reached out for the dancing threads, wrapping what she could catch around her forehoof, to store it beneath her folded wing. She would take it back home with her and add it to a spool she planned showing off to Erba.

When she came to her spot, and unwrapped the axe, her chore was simple enough. The weight of the axe would’ve daunted a child not raised to wield it, but Mi Amore had been, and Nonna only required she collect twigs for the firewood. The heavier work could be taken on by Bosco, once he returned to it.

After an hour's chopping and collecting, Mi Amore decided her task was done for the day.

It was as she knelt down to wrap the axe that a movement caught her eye, on the edge of the wood. Curious, she turned away, looking to see what it might be. But, seeing nothing in the foliage, Mi Amore shrugged and decided her mind was playing tricks on her indeed, her mind was another part of her which felt different. On some nights, it seemed to Mi Amore that she walked in dreams not her own, but those of the whole village.

Then as she turned around, Mi Amore gasped and fell back. In front of her, not three paces away, there stood a stranger who hadn't been there before.

“I’m sorry,” said the stranger, smiling softly. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

* * * * *

How to describe the stranger?

She stood an inch taller than the grown-ups of Florentina. Her mane was the colour of thistle. So were her eyes, calm and tranquil as an unrippled pond. Her coat must have been of the same colour, but Mi Amore saw little of it, for the stranger was clad in a beige cloak that covered her from top to bottom, attached at the neck by a brooch. Only her face and the tips of her forehooves hinted as to how she looked beneath.

“I am a traveller, seeking repose,” said the stranger. Her soft smile from when she'd greeted Mi Amore never left her lips, firm as the features of a wax figurine. “I’ve passed through these woods, taking comfort in knowing a village lies nestled at their heart, so my night shan’t be a lonely one.”

She circled around Mi Amore in the grass, looking her over with deep curiosity.

“But, my! An odd sight this is. None would have told me, in this land of earthponies, that I'd stumble upon a village of winged ponies. Can you explain this marvel to me, feathered creature?”

Summoning her confidence, little Mi Amore dusted herself off.

Her village had taught her there are two ways to greet strangers. Always with kindness, and yet, never without caution. No rule is more sacred than hospitality – which makes those who’d flaunt this rule all the more fearsome, for their smiles hide the blackest of hearts.

However, never once did it cross her mind that she carried an axe. This was not in her nature.

“This is the village of Florentina,” Mi Amore greeted the stranger. “Welcome. And it's a village of earthponies. It's just that I'm a pegasus, the only one around here… at least, I think I am. My name is Mi Amore Cadenza. Please, what's yours?”

Whereupon Mi Amore noticed one last feature of the stranger’s.

Atop her forehead rested something Mi Amore had never seen before. At first, Mi Amore was put in mind of a lengthy, spiralling candle-wick, coloured thistle like the rest of the stranger. Until it emitted a gentle glow. And Mi Amore recognised it for a horn.

“Cadenza, is it?” the stranger said, her face lit by the glow. “‘So named for the final flourish towards the ending of an aria… Huh, interesting choice. Pretty name, mind.”

Horn still alit, she gave Mi Amore a steady stare, as if examining her features.

“Forgive me. I forget my manners,” said the stranger. Her horn dimmed. “To tell you the truth, little Cadenza, I’ve gone by many names, in my time.”

Mi Amore was surprised. By the horn, and by those words. “You don’t look so old,” was what came out of her mouth, before she could think. “Um. Sorry.”

The stranger chuckled. It was true. She had a face that was not old, yet nor could it be called young.

“No, don’t worry,” she said. “How flattering is that? I can tell you’re a charmer. It’s simply that I travel a lot, you see. And some people bear different names in different places. Yet since I must provide you a name… Hm. What say you we go with… ‘Prismia’.”

The filly smiled at her. “Thanks. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prismia. You said you were looking for a place to stay?”

“For repose. I seldom stay in one place for long, with other people.”

The traveller looked past Mi Amore’s shoulder to the village and the Sun setting behind the treeline.

“However, the nights grow colder, and I wouldn’t deny an invitation to the warmth of the hearth, if I am welcome to it. I see you were collecting firewood, when I came across you.”

“It’s still a bit early for lighting the hearth,” Mi Amore explained, going to pick up her bundle. “But here in Florentina, we like gathering around a campfire in the evenings, on the village square. You can come join us if you want.”

Prismia raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure your elders would let me?”

“Of course,” Mi Amore said at once, beaming. “They’re nice.” She patted her bundle of firewood. “Will you follow me, please? I’ve just got to pack this up first.”

Working quickly thanks to much practice, Mi Amore went about tying up the firewood and wrapping the axe back safely into its cloth.

And Prismia nodded. “I’ll take you at your word. They do appear to have raised you well. You told me you’re the only like you in this village… and yet, not even once have you let your curiosity outweigh your politeness.”

“I’m sorry?”

With that smile of hers, Prismia indicated her horn.

“I saw you looking,” she said. “And why wouldn’t you? It’s hard to miss. You’re wondering what I am, but you won’t ask, though there’s no shame in wondering. Tell me, if I told you I was a unicorn, would that mean anything to you?”

Unicorn. Mi Amore chewed on that word, the firewood momentarily forgotten. Until its meaning came to her, and she was surprised.

“You’re a pony who can do magic?” she whispered in awe. “Are you… you’re from Equestria?”

“Equestria isn’t the only land to house unicorns,” Prismia said calmly. “And what is magic? Isn’t what you earthponies do its own form of magic?” She stopped speaking, catching up to her words. “Ah. My apologies, feathered one. That was thoughtless of me.”

“It’s alright,” said Mi Amore, adroitly slinging her bundle of firewood between her wings, commencing the trot back towards the village. “Nonna Espina told me everything a long time ago. She found me in the woods and they adopted me… Anyway, I can’t fly. So, I’m pretty much like everyone else around here.”

She heard the traveller’s voice from behind her. “Really. Like everyone else.”

That got Mi Amore to stop in her tracks, almost as soon as she’d started. She turned around. Prismia had not followed. The traveller was staring to one side, with the appearance of one mulling over a problem.

“Are you alright?”

Prismia’s eyes snapped back her way. “I was just thinking,” she said, nodding at the bundle and the tool slung over Mi Amore’s back. “That seems a heavy load for a child. Would I not be a good guest, if I offered to carry it for you?”

The traveller’s horn sparked invitingly, but Mi Amore smiled and shook her head. “You’re very kind. But I’m used to it. And we haven’t got far to go.”

“Suit yourself,” Prismia shrugged, moving forward. “On your back be it.”

The remainder of their trek was spent in companiable silence.

* * * * *

By the time they got back to Nonna’s greenhouse, the Sun had set, and the old villager was waiting outside her door, the beginnings of worry on her face. A worry which instantly vanished when she saw Mi Amore arrive bearing her load, though it was soon replaced by surprise when she saw who’d come with her.

“Nonna, this is Prismia,” said Mi Amore. “She offered to help me carry the firewood, but I told her it wasn’t far. She said she’s passing through.”

The traveller inclined her head courteously. “Your friend was welcoming,” she said. “And it’s true, I have places to go. However, if your folk will grant me company for tonight, I’d be grateful.”

Nonna, too, had spotted Prismia’s horn.

“We don’t see many unicorns hereabouts,” she told Prismia. Her tone wasn’t guarded, yet denoted careful inquiry. “What brings you this way?”

“I have been many places,” replied Prismia. “And been many people. Frankly, I’ve seen more of the world than I care to for now… I needed a place where life is slow, peaceful and content. Oh, I won’t be able to stay very long, as business calls to me. But it’d make me happy if I could spend just one hour by your village’s campfire.”

The old villager inclined her head in return. “An hour you shall have, and more, if you so wish, Mistress Prismia. Please, come hither and be welcome.”

“You have my thanks,” Prismia said, smiling her smile.

Meeting the rest of the village went much the same.

It was Florentina’s wont, when the weather allowed, to gather around in the village square, for an eve’s communal meal at a shared fire. By that fire’s light, Mi Amore saw the traveller greeted by people she’d known her whole life Erba the herbalist, Bosco and Brocca and their family, and of course, the mayor Radice.

As all took their seats on the logs circling the campfire, Mi Amore showed off the gossamer she’d collected to Erba and her closest friend Benna, the eldest daughter of Bosco and Brocca. Meanwhile, Radice gave the traveller a loaf fresh from the oven of Fornaio, the baker.

“Be our guest. And break bread with us,”

Prismia accepted the bread. But not by touch. Her horn glowed, wrapping the loaf in a purple aura. Benna whispered into Mi Amore’s ear.

“Did you see that?”

To which Mi Amore nodded silently.

“Your kindness shan’t be forgotten,” said Prismia, placing the loaf in her lap. Her eyes were studying the campfire. “I know you request no payment for hospitality. Yet I feel I must offer you something in return.” Here, her eyes fell once more upon Mi Amore. “And not just for myself, I daresay. Little Cadenza told me how you took her into your home. It must be quite a story.”

“One worth telling,” agreed Nonna.

Prismia kept her eyes on them. “Maybe this is how I can repay you. Do you like stories, Cadenza?”

“Oh, yes,” Mi Amore said brightly, nodding. “Very much. Nonna always says a good story works up the appetite before supper.”

“That’s funny,” said Benna. “I thought Nonna said it’s good for the digestion after

“Hush, you two,” said Nonna. “Let our guest talk.”

“Well,” Prismia said, her eyes glinting. “Seeing as this a town of flowers, I thought that I might tell a story about flowers. Or rather, one very special flower. Please tell me, good folk, have any of you heard the tale of the crystal flower?”

To a crowd who shook their heads and muttered ‘nay’ as one, the traveller smiled.

“Alright, then,” she said. “I shall begin.”

And this was the tale that Prismia told;

Long ago, far to the North, there lived a people who were proud and beautiful and wise. This was both their blessing and their curse. For so proud and beautiful and wise were they, the very earth upon which they trod had come to seem coarse and vulgar. Over the years, they lost their love for the world, and thus they declined. Though they were long-lived, they were not eternal. One by one, their numbers diminished, for in their aloofness, they ceased to bring children into this world they found so coarse and vulgar.

At last, there remained amongst them two who had not lost their love for their world. Yet while they had names, for the purposes of this tale, let us call them Father and Mother, since that is what they were. They alone chose to have children, when all others of their kind had given up. Two sons were what they had.

Father and Mother were wisest amongst their people, but they had different ideas on how to give their sons a world to love living in. Where Father looked to the Heavens and the world of spirit, Mother saw life left in the Land and the world of matter.

Eventually, they reached a compromise. Pooling their artisanship, Father and Mother crafted a whole new family of beings from the primordial fire. An intermediary between the world of spirit and the world of matter. These beings were to be their familiars, their followers – their friends, walking alongside them, here at the end of their kind’s road. What Father and Mother had planned, one might say, was to make a garden for their sons, and these beings would be the gardeners. Of those beings, there were several, yet for this tale, only one such ‘gardener’ need concern us.

Now, it was said earlier that Father and Mother had two sons. In all families, a child shall favour one parent and a parent shall favour one child. To understand what happened next and why, it is important to know of these sons, though they shall go as unnamed as their parents.

Father’s favourite son was beautiful as any of their kind, fiercely passionate and thirsty for knowledge. Yet Mother’s favourite son was of subdued temperament, lived for imagination – and most unusually for their kind, he was not beautiful at all, yet he possessed a generous heart. Let us call them Princes, for want of a better term. The Red Prince is a good name for one of them. Perhaps you can already guess which.

With her favourite son, Mother set about the primordial fire once again, crafting yet further beings to populate their garden. And all together, these beings are still remembered today, in the bloodlines we call the Twelve Families of Equus.

Father, however, looked in a different direction. He lamented that his kind would die, and regarded what new life Mother crafted as doomed to suffer the same fate. But if Father could not save his favourite son from death, then he’d gift him life in a garden without death.

Against the odds, the gardener to whom Father assigned this arduous task would succeed at it. She, the gardener, crafted a crystal flower. It was a magnificent flower. A flower that would never fade or droop or wilt. Beholding it was akin to looking into a prismatic dream, mirrored back at you… Truly, if the Red Prince ever loved a thing, the crystal flower was it.

… But here we reach the sting in our tale.

Unknown to his parents, the Red Prince was consumed by the same disdain for the coarseness and vulgarity of the world as their forebears. To him it was an act of betrayal, that Mother should have brought him into a world of no future for him or his brother – no, only for the beings she’d crafted.

The crystal flower took all his love. And as time went by, the crystal flower became the greediest in the garden. It drank all of the juices from the earth. Most importantly, it snatched up all sunlight. The garden became so dark that even the very air turned cold.

Once the gardener saw what her work had wrought, she was overcome with remorse, and resolved to pick the crystal flower. But the Red Prince executed a crafty plan. He took his brother aside, and playing on his generosity, begged him to make it so the gardener would pick a different flower. And when the gardener understood her mistake, it was too late.

Thus, the crystal flower ended all alone in an empty garden. It blossomed, spread its seeds, and a new garden grew, a hundred times more beautiful than the one before.

It was a garden without death. It was a garden of no real flowers.

As the traveller’s tale faded, heavy silence had fallen upon the gathered villagers.

“That’s a horrible story,” whispered Mi Amore. “I do not like it at all.”

“Oh, but it’s no story, feathered one,” Prismia said simply. “It is deepest truth. I never tell stories with no truth to them.”

“Is that… it? Surely that’s not the end?”

Prismia chuckled darkly. “You ask because you want my tale to have a happy ending. Must every tale have a happy ending?”

Mi Amore shakily knotted the gossamer around her hoof. Benna was silent, and Nonna’s hold around her shoulders had loosened.

“I guess not… But isn’t a happy ending better than a sad ending?”

“For whom, child?” said Prismia. “For us? Do we not do ourselves a disservice, if we pretend that all woe must someday end? Ask yourself this, does anything ever end, but for the one end which comes to us all?”

As she shook her head, her eyes travelled to the brightness in the night sky.

“Our feelings are like the Moon above. They wax and wane. Happiness shall pass, and sadness, too. And then they’ll return, like dust from the stars. Maybe.”

The filly’s gaze followed hers to the lonely figure on the Moon.

Then, without any preamble, Prismia raised herself.

“Now, having said this, I must leave you.” The traveller gazed at each villager in turn. “You are all fine people, and I wish that I could give you better… Who knows? You may see me again, come the end of Winter.”

Mi Amore alone seemed to hear the traveller, or even notice her go. Before she could speak, her voice went silent at a troubling sight.

The brooch clasped at the neck of Prismia’s cloak was glowing a deep, uncanny crimson. An eerie colour that continued to shine in the darkness of the treeline, long after the traveller had receded from view.

It was only afterwards they saw Prismia had left her loaf behind, unbroken.

* * * * *

A change came over Florentina that Winter.

The change crept up slowly. At first it seemed almost ordinary. Bosco grew slack in his work, and his fellow villagers would rely on themselves if they wished to collect firewood amidst the snows of Winter. And there was some grumbling, yet none begrudged him.

Then it spread. Brocca, who always had unwaveringly carried the water, from the spring if the village’s well failed to provide, now complained the freeze made her task harder. Benna offered to help her mother collect her load, and for a time, all seemed well.

But one morning, Benna no longer wanted to help. In a voice full of hurt, she claimed her father no longer properly kept the house warm, and her mother showed her no gratitude. At this, both her parents took fright, and called upon Erba.

The herbalist saw to Benna for hours in private. When he came out, he told the assembled villagers that what ailed her wasn’t in his power to heal. Hence Mi Amore stepped forward, proposing to let her friend bask in the comfort of Nonna’s greenhouse, which flowered in all seasons.

Amid the buttercups and bluebelles, lilies and daisies, the magnolia and the orchid, and the Queen Rose, here the girl Benna shed her sadness, and begged her parents’ forgiveness. And they forgave her willingly, admitting to their own fault.

Mi Amore offered each in the family a flower to take home with them, hoping these would be their memory of brightness and reconciliation in the next dark period.

Alas, the flowers did not last long. And soon the sorry cycle began again.

That Winter, there were no snow figurines or snow angels for Mi Amore. There were not even playful scuffles with her friends. Her days were spent hard at labour, pulling her weight when no-one else would.

Wood was no longer cut for the fire. The ice was deemed too hard to brave for fresh water or herbs. Family and friends retreated within their walls and their own little shells, held apart even when they sat inches from one another.

The gift of flowers brought back life, for a time. But where one villager regained the spark, another would lose it once more.

Mi Amore chipped her hooves from cutting the wood and breaking the ice. Her back grew sore under her ceaseless loads. Her eyes became lidded with sleeplessness. Her mane turned ragged and her coat lost its luster.

Only her wings remained as they were. Pretty, yet powerless.

Hence Mi Amore took to carrying the gossamer spool beneath her wings at all times, a comfort toy. She told herself it carried her up, drew the hidden strength from her wings. Sometimes, this was all which kept her going.

But always, always, Mi Amore continued to help Nonna with the flowers. It was its own labour, yet a fresh-grown flower signified a moment’s respite for her. However, even Nonna’s flowers could not last forever.

Until one day, Nonna dropped her tools and said, “What good is it? We have toiled to give our loved ones a little life back, and now my greenhouse is almost void of life.”

She spoke true. The Queen Rose alone remained, untrimmed and thus grown taller and thornier than it had a right to, almost reaching the glass roof. All else was gone.

And Nonna said flatly, “I shall offer that rose to none, for there be none more precious to me than that rose.”

Hearing those words, Mi Amore felt her lips tremble, and she fled.

The little filly did not stop until she reached the outskirts, where she slumped into the snow, uncaring how the cold bit her, and after weeks of holding back, she cried and cried.

It was then a familiar face appeared.

* * * * *

“My,” said Prismia. “How changed is Florentina! Can this be the same village I left months ago?”

Mi Amore gazed up at the traveller. Her grimy face was still streaked with tears. “No… No, it’s not. It’s all your fault. It’s been like this ever since you came.”

“Why, child,” Prismia said mildly. “What proof have you to accuse me of your ills?”

“You did something, I saw you!” Mi Amore wailed, almost screamed. “You cast a spell on everyone! You… you did this…”

The rest of her words dissolved into sobs.

When Mi Amore’s sobs had ended, Prismia still stood there, staring at her unreadably.

“You are something,” said the traveller. “In this village, you alone were spared. You stayed strong, little pegasus, when these earthponies lost their strength... But you give up all of your strength to fill what’s missing in the villagers. They show you only fleeting gratitude for it, Cadenza. What do you owe them?”

Mi Amore glared at her.

“They took me in,” she said. “I owe them everything. They’re… they’re ill. I can’t just drop them because they’re not themselves. And who are you to speak of gratitude? You were our guest, we let you stay, we gave you our bread, we… How could you?”

Prismia raised a forehoof. “Very well. You saw what I did. I admit to this wrongdoing. But though my words and deeds are slippery, as I said, they are never false… If you know where to look.” She lowered her forehoof. “I stayed in no home of yours, and broke no bread with you. Do not confuse cruel with dishonourable.”

“What do you want, Prismia?” Mi Amore asked wearily. “Haven’t you done enough?”

She wondered if the traveller flinched at her words. Yet if Prismia did, it was merely fleeting, and may not have been there at all.

“What I want? What do you think?” Prismia said evenly. She pressed at the brooch which held her cloak together. “When we met, I offered to help you carry your load, for free. Today, I offer to release you of it… at a bargain.”

This caught Mi Amore by surprise. “A bargain? Which bargain?”

Like on that evening at the end of Autumn, Prismia circled around her. “How does it feel, child?” Once, you were happy. Now you are sad. But how does it feel, having someone to blame for that? Does it ease your pain, if even a little?”

Leaving Mi Amore no time to answer, the traveller ploughed on.

“And yet, you’ve done all you can to ease the pain of others. You’ve given a flower to each villager, so that for one blink, they could again feel the love I drain from them… You, who are fading, yet are not drained. Even when there’s but one flower left in old Nonna Espina’s greenhouse.”

She came back to face Mi Amore.

“So here is what I propose. Perhaps you have no love for me, but if you can show me that very last token of your love, your friends will be restored.”

Mi Amore was appalled. “That’s the Queen Rose! It’s Nonna’s pride and joy.”

“Really,” Prismia said smoothly. “How much joy has it given her of late?”

Any other day, Mi Amore may have argued harder. But she was exhausted, and only a child, and this might be her only chance.

With a heavy heart, she promised to uproot and pot the Queen Rose.

“Wait,” called Prismia, as Mi Amore was leaving. “I shall accept no less fine a gift than you’d make for anyone in this village. If you break a single thorn, I will know.”

And Mi Amore quailed at the enormity of the task given her.

* * * * *

Mi Amore was spared one hardship upon reaching the greenhouse. Nonna was no longer there.

While Mi Amore felt a stab of fear for her friend, moreover, she felt relief Nonna would not have to witness this. She tried reassuring herself. Nonna had most likely gone home, walling herself in like the rest of them had.

Blessed be if she could soon right this wrong.

Then Mi Amore saw again how tall the Queen Rose had grown, and her heart shrank. How was she, child that she was, to uproot and pot such a flower without breaking a thorn? The rose had grown to touch the roof of the greenhouse. A ladder was too crude a tool for this, and there were no other flowers left she could climb for support.

She gritted her teeth to set about this task.

At first, Mi Amore decided she’d take the trowel and slowly dig out the roots. A good deal of dirt and effort later, she spotted the flaw in this scheme. A rose so large could perhaps be plucked, it could not be uprooted by her strength alone. Even if it could, the risk was great that it would collapse under its own weight.

Covered in soil and sweat, she sat, thinking. As she did so, Mi Amore felt the tickle of the gossammer tucked under her wings.

Suddenly curious about her own keepsake, Mi Amore took it out, slowly unspooling from her wings. The glimmer of an idea emerged in her.

Spread out like this, gossamer was fragile. Woven into knots, it was sturdy.

To prevent the Queen Rose’s thick stem from collapsing on itself, she had to secure its center mass. Its heart, if you will.

Despite her desperation, the intrigue of her idea spurred on Mi Amore. Patiently, over the hours, she knotted the gossamer, till what she held was like an open cocoon, one waiting to envelop rather than to hatch.

But when she looked up, the next hurdle made itself apparent. All roses have their thorns. These were great thorns, and stood in her way of scaling to the heart.

With her cocoon tucked safely, Mi Amore nonetheless approached, seeking the courage to brave these thorns as some would walk across coals. Yet her every attempt was foiled, as time again, she yelped and jumped back, unable to endure the sting and laceration.

When the fruitlessness of this approach grew clear, Mi Amore had to pause anew. She looked about to see outside, eve was near. Frost painted itself on the glass.

This gave her thought. Although every flower but the Queen Rose had been given away, to the far corner of the greenhouse, there lay the saplings of the coming new batch. She went to see, and so it was indeed. In the greenhouse’s air, what would be frost in Winter rested as dew upon the shoots.

Easing herself, careful not to crush these future flowers, Mi Amore anointed herself until she was coated on nigh every spot with dew.

Her determination renewed, Mi Amore went to the challenge of scaling the stem one more time. There was still pain. The sting was still there, and the cuts were many, yet she moved up, for the caress of the dew softened it all.

In what took less time than it felt to her, Mi Amore was at the heart, her fore- and hindlegs hugging the stem to keep her from slipping. Moving with delicate and utmost concentration, she retrieved her gossamer-cocoon from her wings, using her mouth as an earthpony would. She shimmied round the stem to wrap it.

Had she slipped, she’d have torn through many thorns, and though it wouldn’t have been lethal to her it would lose her the day.

Mi Amore breathed a great sigh of relief when, tying the final knot, one end of the gossamer met the other around the stem. Only then did she let herself slide down, with much caution.

She resumed her digging work at the bottom. From that point onward, the remainder of Mi Amore’s work passed by quickly. She undug the Queen Rose root by root, so it may not topple and ruin her efforts, but instead gradually leaned over. Pulling at the one, long thread she’d allowed to leave hanging from the gossamer cocoon, Mi Amore kept its center steady. The heart didn’t break.

And after much manoeuvering, the Queen Rose had moved, for Nonna had the clairvoyance to keep pots that could accommodate so large a flower. Mi Amore had even been careful to place the destined pot already into a wheelbarrow, sparing her the new challenge of having to carry it.

Heavy it was, nevertheless, for a child of even her practice to push the barrow. Yet following the trial she’d gone through, the thought of accomplishing her goal was boon to Mi Amore.

A mere moment’s struggle at the greenhouse door did not discourage her.

* * * * *

By the time Mi Amore returned to Prismia, night had long fallen, and the traveller had put up a campfire just for herself, undisturbed by anyone from the village. The noise of the heavily-laden barrow crunching through the snow drew her notice, making her stand.

“An ingenious solution…” said Prismia.

Mi Amore was breathing heavily, close to exhaustion, but light in the heart. “Did I do it?” she asked. “Will you keep up your end of the bargain?”

Prismia eyed her queryingly, then shook her head, and pointed.

“I’m afraid not. Look.”

Even before Mi Amore did look, her heart had plummeted, just from being told this. Dazed, she turned, seeing what Prismia pointed to. Wedged into her flank was the smallest thorn of the Queen Rose. She’d been at once so numb and so elated, she hadn’t noticed.

Yet how could it have got there? She’d been so careful, she was sure of it!

“No…” whispered Mi Amore. “No, no, it can’t be, there must be some mistake…”

“There’s no mistake. The terms were clear.” Adding weight to her statement, Prismia tapped the brooch of her cloak. “You’ve given me nothing worth relinquishing the power of this Amulet. You were to make as fine a gift as you would for anyone in this village. I warned you I’d know if you so much as broke a thorn.”

“But I… I didn’t… I can’t have…”

“Are you sure?” Prismia asked. “Then answer me. You called that flower old Espina’s pride and joy. Though I’d doubted it’s brought her joy recently, you ought to know better than I the mare who found you. Did you tell her what you were going to do?”

A horrible guilt invaded Mi Amore as she realised what she’d done. She sank to her hooves, getting buried in the ankle-deep snow.

“Why?” asked Mi Amore, in a small, defeated voice. “Why are you doing this?”

Prismia gazed at her with cold, distant eyes. “Don’t you remember the tale I told?” she said. “Do you not remember the story of the Red Prince and the crystal flower?”

Mi Amore did. Three months on, the woeful tale was fresh in her mind.

“It was a warning,” she murmured. “But… I don’t understand. Who are you, Prismia? Why me? Why… us?”

In response, all Prismia did was tighten her cloak. “And you’ll never know.”

“No, wait, hold up!” Mi Amore cried after her, even as Prismia turned. “There’s still got to be a way to fix this! Please! What you’re doing is wrong!”

Prismia stopped. When she turned back round, Mi Amore thought the stranger who’d looked neither old nor young, suddenly looked aged beyond recognition.

“Wrong?” Prismia echoed. “Child, wait until you’ve lived as long as I have, then you may know the meaning of wrong.” She stroked the brooch she’d called an Amulet. “You think you’ve carried a heavy burden? This tool which let me drink of your love is not a pleasure-item, it’s a hairshirt! Yet I won’t take it off. Not so long as I haven’t the luxury to let myself forget.”

“Forget?”

Something in Prismia’s intonation peeled away the fear and impotent distress within Mi Amore, replacing it with a different emotion.

And Prismia sighed deep.

“Maybe there is still a way…” she said. “There is power inside you, feathered one. Power enough to match the Amulet. Much I could teach you… more than I could tell in one night, that is certain. Maybe then, in time, you’ll begin to understand.”

That different emotion stayed with Mi Amore. Until, infinitesimally, something else resurfaced.

“What’s there to understand? All you need to do is stop this. You… I don’t get why, but you don’t have to steal anyone’s love…”

“Indeed not…” replied Prismia. “Like I said, Mi Amore. You have power to match this Amulet… just as you have the will to carry others’ burdens. If you were to join me in this burden… Neither your village, nor anyone else, would again need to bear mine.”

“Was that what happened?” Mi Amore asked quietly. “They felt what you feel?”

Prismia did not answer. “What say you? Will you give yourself up entirely for their happiness?”

Mi Amore thought about it. Recalled what she’d heard in the traveller’s intonation. She almost took the step forward.

Yet she drew back.

“I’m sorry, Prismia,” she said slowly, “I’m really sorry, I am… But, I can’t. I can’t go with you. How would they feel, if I just… vanished? Would it really make them happy, if they knew why I’d gone? They… they love me. I know they still do. It’d break their hearts, and… I’m sorry, b-but… We’d have helped you.”

“Then you won’t give yourself up?” Prismia frowned a little. “After how much you’ve martyred yourself this Winter? And what about old Espina, will you dare to face her, having taken her beloved rose?”

“Running away would be the easy way out,” said Mi Amore. “Or at least, that’s how it’d feel at first. But how cruel would it be, to go and take everything Nonna loves from her? And… aren’t I doing more for them by staying to help, than disappearing with a stranger?”

Gradually, a new expression traversed Prismia. One of dawning wonder.

“That is it… The gift as fine as for anyone in this village.” And she took off the Amulet. “I have beholden it, and now, the true exchange can be made.”

The Amulet shone bright. Mi Amore was taken up.

* * * * *

For one wild moment, Mi Amore wondered if this place was another dream, like so many she had stumbled into. She was standing on… nothing. An ethereal plane, stretching into a seeming infinity of all-encompassing cerulean. Around her swam motes of golden dust, sparkling in the void.

“Hello?” she called out. Only her voice echoed back to her. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Within the golden dust coalesced a figure.

Mi Amore shrank back from the sight that manifested before her. A mare of slender build and a coat of purest alabaster, adorned in a peytral and a crown of gold. Covered by a long, flowing mane, out gazed an eye as rose as Mi Amore’s own coat. But it was the figure’s mane which created awe, with its hue of turquoise, sea-green and dawn pink.

And then Mi Amore beheld a truly unique vision. The white mare bore a horn and great, angelic wings in equal measure.

“Who are you?” Mi Amore whispered. “Where are we?”

Her voice was so soft, she barely heard herself. Yet the other heard her well.

“I am Celestia,” said the white mare. “The Princess of the Sun. And this is the Plane of Images. Aeons it’s been, since I felt its call… But who might you be, little one?”

Feeling small and scared, despite the gentleness in that voice, Mi Amore almost didn’t answer.

“I’m… My name is… I’m just Mi Amore. A filly from Florentina…”

“... ‘Amore’?” The Princess’s eyes, wise as they were, seemed to widen in recognition. “Florentina, my little pony?” She peered closer at Mi Amore. “Is that not in Oleander? But you have wings.”

“Not wings that work,” stammered Mi Amore. “I was raised by the earthponies. I am no-one.”

And the Princess of the Sun smiled.

“Child,” said she, “no-one is no-one. And as I look at you now in this place, then if you are who I believe you to be… You are more precious to me than you could know.”

“What?” gasped Mi Amore. “I’m just a lost pegasus.”

“No, child. You are more. In fact, there is more of the earthponies in you than there is of those vestigial wings.”

“... I’m an earthpony?”

The Princess of the Sun laughed. Her laughter was a musical, joyful sound.

“You are crystal,” spoke the Princess. “In you flows the blood of earthpony, pegasus and unicorn. And you are grand-daughter many times over of the Moon, she who is my own, dear sister… We are family, you and I, Mi Amore.”

As Mi Amore stared in disbelief, Princess Celestia glowed with light and warmth of the very Sun.

“I will come for you. This will begin to make things right.”

* * * * *

The ethereal plane and that warm voice faded, as Mi Amore came back to earth.

Her eyes were closed. She scarcely dared open them. When she did, she gasped in wonder. Her wings had fledged. Her head bore a horn. And as she stood with swan-like grace, upon her flank, where the thorn had popped out, there appeared the mark of a gilded cyan heart.

“... Prismia?”

She searched and searched, yet the sorceress was gone. Only the Amulet remained in the snow, which was beginning to melt around it.

“You’re hurting, aren’t you?” Mi Amore asked softly. “I don’t know your story. But I hope it has a happy ending.”

In the days to come, awaiting the Sun’s chariot to arrive, Mi Amore truly saw, then, what Prismia’s trial had meant. Her leaving Florentina was a good thing. However, it came at a cost to those she loved and who loved her.

But her friends, Bosco and Brocca and Benna, and Erba and Radice, all greeted her with pride and celebration when they saw what had become of the village’s daughter of all. And Nonna hugged her, and was none too upset about the Queen Rose.

After all, it was only a flower. She kept the gossamer cocoon Mi Amore had made, saying it reminded her of the child’s snow creations.

“It’s just as was written, Mi Amore,” Nonna Espina smiled. “You took good care of us.”

* * * * *

The Princess of the Sun’s words held true, in the years to follow. Things were made right.

Having once been a child herself, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza was to care for many children. And one such child was student to the Princess of the Sun, and through careful nurture, this next child blossomed into a Bearer of Harmony.

Her name was Twilight. In her blossoming, the young student found Harmony with five others. Together, they wielded this deeper magic to free the Princess of the Moon from the Nightmare, when the Sun coaxed the stars to aid her escape.

After gaining an aunt in Princess Celestia, a cousin in the mortal line of Blueblood, and a sister in Sunset Shimmer, Mi Amore came face-to-face with this most unexpected of ancestors, Princess Luna. Just as Celestia had rejoiced, so too did Luna.

And with the guidance of the Princesses, Mi Amore’s own joy was to grow twicefold. Her future, by marriage to a soul with whom she fully embodied love, in the person of Twilight’s older brother. Her heritage, through reclaiming the Northern city of crystal, upon its return from the void, finally banishing the Dark King.

So, you might say, she lived happily ever after.

But never again did the little princess meet that strange traveller, through whose trial she had earned her wings.

Fourteen and a half years later

In a small, secluded corner of the Starswhirl Wing at Canterlot Palace, the Crystal Princess finished recounting her own tale to two figures, both of them soldiers.

One was Shining Armor, Captain of the Royal Guard and her husband of three months.

The other was a being from another world, hatched straight from the fantasies of young Lyra Heartstrings, her former charge who was currently only a few book-rows away, in the illustrious company of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, Lord Discord, the faithful Twilight and her five friends, and Prince Blueblood – and another one of a family Cadance had never known she had, the mysterious grey alicorn who identified herself as Galatea.

Yet it was not Galatea, but a human to whom she and Shining devoted their attention. A man in a wheelchair, broken in body and soul.

His name was Alexander Reiner, his rank that of Captain to a great empire under siege, and he claimed he’d met her in the parallel realm from when he came. Or rather, the Lady Cadance, herself of an Equestria parallel to this one.

Shining Armor, who already knew his wife’s tale, remained quiet so Alexander might speak.

“... And how much does Celestia know about this?”

Princess Cadance felt surprise at the urgency in the human’s voice. “Well… I already told her everything I knew, back when I was a filly. But she’d never heard of a ‘Prismia’, nor did she manage to track her down in the years since. Why?”

“Because, Cadance… Sorry, I mean, Your Highness,” the human said, wringing his hands together, “if all this happened when you were a kid, then… What Princess Celestia knows, Queen Celestia must know too.”

“That’s… scary to think,” Cadance admitted. “But, I don’t know, did I… Did she, I mean Lady Cadance, did she ever mention anything about Prismia?”

The human stopped wringing his hands.

“Ooh, that’s a tough one,” he said, sounding deflated. “See, Princess Luna didn’t have time to tell us anything before she got captured. Me, I didn’t even learn that Cadance… that you were her granddaughter, until I got it from… well, you. And all Lady Cadance really said was that one day, Celestia ‘heard’ of her, and came to pick her up.”

“That isn’t much to go on,” said Shining, meeting his wife’s eyes.

“No, it isn’t…” the human agreed, though he gazed at Shining oddly. “I’m… I’m sorry. This is just too weird.”

Shining frowned. “What is?”

The human sighed.

“You. And Cadance. Happy, together.” When neither spoke, he continued. “I’m used to thinking of Celestia as this… this abstract concept, an enemy to fight. But Cadance… I dunno if we’re friends, exactly, but we are close colleagues. Losing Shining Armor tore her apart.”

Cadance suddenly felt an aching sympathy for this unknown reflection of herself. Shining went to stand by her side.

“It isn’t me, Candy,” he whispered. “It shall never be me.”

Alexander gave a little laugh, sour and with a hint of cruelty. “I’m sure that’s what he thought, too.” His voice turned more respectful as he addressed Cadance. “Yet I never knew just how strong you were. Though, what was up with that tale she told you? The one about the… the crystal flower? It sounds like she was trying to make a point…”

“Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder the same,” Cadance told him quietly. “There’s still so much that’s a mystery about Prismia. Perhaps it’s timely that Twilight’s got around to studying the Alicorn Amulet.”

To which the human snorted.

“Well, call me a simple jarhead,” said Alexander, “I say thanks for the story, Your Highness, but if we’re not gonna get to the bottom of this mystery just yet, I suggest putting it on the backburner. We got more pressing issues, like what the hell happened to my mother’s locket.”

“You wanted to know how I became an alicorn,” stated Cadance. “A magical artefact played its part in that story, too.”

“It is done…”

Upon a distant shoreline, the traveller slumped into a beached coracle, exhausted.

Catching her breath, which was slow and ragged, she beheld the Moon, upon whose face was carved the face of the lost sister. This occasion ought to have been joyful, and yet her heart was filled with sorrow.

… For the traveller was old, so very old.

Older than the three sisters who were caretakers of the land beyond the horizon, and of the celestial spheres. Older than all the Scions of Chaos, whose grand and terrible birth she had borne witness to. Older, perhaps, than the Guardian of Joy, though this even she knew not for sure.

Yet she had been young and foolish, once. And she’d spent nearly the whole of her long, long existence seeking to repair her mistakes.

Drifting, the traveller’s mind went back to another night, twelve years ago…

* * * * *

There are many wicked souls who, consumed by their lust and their spite and their hunger for power, do name themselves King or Queen. Once, in the Far North, the Princess of the Moon lost her family to such a usurper, the corrupt Dark King.

History does not repeat, but it rhymes.

So it was that as the cycle of centuries turns, eventually, to the South, a new usurper arose. This one fancied himself a King of Storms.

Very pleased was he, that night on his ship, the crown jewel of a great, devastating fleet. Yet it was neither his ship or his fleet’s magnificence which pleased him tonight, nor the power he wielded upon tempest and lightning.

No, what gave him pleasure was that, after decades of searching, he held the greatest possible prize in his clutches. An heir to an old magic – not unlike he himself, but when he’d finish squeezing this fruit dry, he would be so much more.

A pity the parents had put up such a fight, the King told himself as, passing by his saluting Guards, he marched to the room where he’d placed his catch. If only he could have restrained himself. They were less use to him in death than the child was in life, and the child may not suffice.

Still, it was a start. A great start.

Smiling to himself, the King swung the door open. And then his blood ran cold.

He’d found the cot empty.

“Where is she?”

The King screamed his rage to the night air.

So great was his fury, the very clouds turned black as coal, and cruel bolts of lightning were unleashed, and the seas far below were struck and churned like a boiling cauldron.

But it did him no good. All his power over the storm could not return his prize.

* * * * *

And in a coracle far away, the traveller, who’d arrived in time to rescue the child, mourned her failure to save the parents. Clutching the swaddled infant, not knowing whether she sought to comfort the child or sought comfort for herself, she wept bitter tears.

Tears for the child, and for the parents, and for herself, and for the worlds.

She knew this false King. Knew of his lineage, the accursed family to whom she had once devoted her greatest work that so-called crystal flower, this Prism of hers, this forsaken tower atop which lay the doorway to the place where dreams come true.

At last, she had no more tears to give, and looked down to the child.

“I cannot care for you, I cannot nurture you,” she lamented. “That is not my talent. My work once froze the world.”

Where could they go now? The child had to live.

An idea slowly worked its way through her mind. Drying her eyes, for she had to see clearly, the traveller let her horn shine so she needn’t let go of the child, and with this ability, unwrapped from its cloth an item which filled half the coracle. Its surface caught the Moonlight’s gleam.

Her eyes stared back at her as she looked into the Crystal Mirror.

But, no… That was no option, not yet. If ever.

Even in her grief, however, the traveller was clever. Three nights and three days she planned her next move. And when one morning, many miles away, she bid goodbye to the child, kissing her forehead, the traveller left a note she knew would soon be read.

Her name is Mi Amore. Take good care of her. She will take good care of you.

* * * * *

Now, the one who’d named herself ‘Prismia’ allowed herself a moment to sit, and ponder.

As the years marched on, she’d made a habit of playing the villain, it seemed. How noteworthy that it always seemed to come back to a garden, akin to the spot where her long game of pursuit by Starswirl’s apprentice had concluded and memories were buried – and that faithful adviser had passed their own trial, learning the tools to nurture the Tree of Harmony when it sprouted.

This was in the past, however. Now was time for the future.

The Mirror would be returned to the Sun Princess, at long last, never letting her know why it now came to her. The Amulet’s destination was no longer hers to decide. And as for the third of the mystical tools she’d reforged...

The bloodline of the Locket’s wielders might dilute, for it was a sad certitude that none of them could hold the same potency in one generation which the Crystal Princess had evidenced after one thousand years.

But there’d be someone to watch over that line. The brave friend she’d sent through the Mirror was waiting on the other side, a spark to light the way, were the need to ever arise. In desperation, she’d once before summoned a different spark. Back then it had been a firefly. In future it would be a fire carrier, as it should be.

She contemplated the Crystal Mirror, reflecting on the world she was aware lay beyond.

Mere fragment now, an imperfect reflection, not a proper refraction. Yet just as when it had been part of a greater whole, this Mirror that was but a fragment retained the power to unveil your truest self. The chrysalis of an inner world. Whose inner world, though? Did the Architect dream the butterfly, or the butterfly dream the Architect?

Prismia, she who was traveller, storyteller, gardener of souls and much else besides, stood up, choosing for now to shake off such musings.

As she stood, she loosened her cloak, and spread her wings.

The Architect glanced back at them, contemplating how long since she had last unfurled them. Just like then, there would come a day when she’d meet her proverbial butterfly anew. That butterfly’s name was Man.

The last time had been over three-thousand years back. The next time might take another thousand years.

Still, the day would come.

* * * * *

What is Man’s role in this tale? One may wonder.

In a great many ways, the tale of how Princess Cadance got her wings is what we are used to seeing in children’s fairy tales about countries of magic and music. It even ends, at least where these tales are supposed to end, with the princess an heir to a mind-blogging place of rock crystal, emerald pavements, sapphire walls and ruby roofs.

But this is what differentiates utopia from a dream.

Even utopia has dirt, between the cobblestones, the mortar holding the bricks together, the drains which keep the rest pristine. It’s all about what’s down below. A ruby firmament must have a foundation to sit atop else it shall topple.

Hence if Man was made of clay, where does Man lie in relation to this magical land, where the most fairy-tale place of all is the one where berries and corn grow out of the living crystal?

In time, the Architect was able to accept her place as another’s dream. She, like all of her kind like the Lady, and the three sisters who came after was crafted as an intermediary between the world of spirit and the world of matter.

Yet the story she told little Mi Amore was true. She never tells stories without truth to them.

Reality is like a rainbow, each beam along the spectrum a little different from the last. And within the beam where Mi Amore’s tale did not reach its rightful conclusion, worlds collided, and a figure from Prismia’s story seeks an ending on their own terms.

The Red Prince has returned, and he lacks the same acceptance as the Architect he once deceived.

… In his hands, Man shall be raw material.

Author's Note:

Spectrum 2.1 - Autumn 2021

VoxAdam:

  • This chapter features no noteworthy modifications, although I did seek to polish the story of the two Princes a little more, and in a plot breadcrumb, Sunset Shimmer again gets mentioned in relation to Celestia’s family.

Spectrum 2.0 - March 15th 2020

VoxAdam: How many of you were waiting for something like this after the conversation between Cadances at the end of Chapter Nineteen (‘When The Dust Settles’)?

To my awareness, there are only two stories on Fimfiction to revolve directly around little Cadance’s encounter with the sorceress Prismia, Essenza di Amore by CeruleanVoice, and Lady Prismia and the Princess-Goddess by SkyWriter, the latter of whom some might recognise as the writer behind Princess Celestia Hates Tea.

While this Interlude is very much intended to be its own thing, at least one scene gives a nod to Essenza di Amore, when Prismia tells the villagers a campfire tale.

Prismia was not always intended to be part of the Spectrumverse, including in its rebooted form. However, the seeds for the idea were lain early on, in hindsight, thanks to the work of TB3. It was TB3’s idea, I recall, that one Cadance should be stunted and the other as we know her. Also worth crediting TB3 is the concept of Cadance being descended from Luna, which was later taken on again by Sledge and myself.

You may be surprised to hear that I never used to be that interested in Princess Cadance. Despite how underutilised she ended up being in OG Spectrum, TB3’s foundations and the re-use of her being kin to Luna can all be credited with my giving her another chance. :pinkiesmile: To the point of making a whole Interlude about her, though it was more arduous than expected, as its publication was originally meant to come a lot sooner after Act Two.

But I personally see this Interlude as cementing the Spectrumverse as a kind of “Ultimate Universe” ponyfic to G4 MLP, with the elements of G1 added in that define Spectrum.

Finally, while few were bound to pick up on this, those in the know will recognise wholesale references to Ice-Pick Lodge’s video game Pathologic during some of the more abstract portions of the Interlude. A demanding yet unique game I’ll ever recommend, along with its remake from last year, despite or perhaps because its themes of contagion have suddenly grown more timely in the past few months… 

Meanwhile, for the next few months, we shall enter a hiatus as we work to get a fair portion of Act Three ready in advance, for our own pacing alongside real-life obligations, and in the hopes that we’ll have finely-made goods to deliver at some point in Summer. 

You all take good care,
~Vox

P.S.
Also, yes. The truth lies revealed, in Spectrum, Cadance was neither pegasus nor unicorn, but a crystalpony, with vestigial “pegacorn” traits that indicate her true royal heritage.

Sledge115: Hello there! We interrupt your regular Spectrum for, as Vox mentioned, something completely different. But one, I assure you, is very much relevant.

I don’t have much to say here, really :twilightsheepish: This was mostly Vox’s doing, through and through, and I contributed exactly one line here. So, congratulations on the fantastic work, mate, it’s been a tale long in the making :twilightsmile:

Now, in the meantime, there’s still plenty of Spectrum to go around, like Doc’s The Light Despondent, and the recently updated A Sun in Winter  among others. Neither particularly spoils the main story, and both cover very different yet similarly important time periods in the Spectrumverse. Have a read!

In other news, we’ve also worked out a timeline for Sunny Equestria for practicality’s sake, and to ensure most events fit into one neat timeline. As Vox mentioned, we here at Team Spectrum fully intend to weave in many disparate materials into one cohesive ‘verse - the show, the comics, Spectrum’s own lore... It’s fun, and there’s more yet to come. Click HERE to read the timeline!

While we’ll still be quite a way off from Act Three proper, well, we hope this has enough within to fill in the wait. So speculate away, and we shall venture Into the Unknown when the time comes. 

Cheers,
~Sledge

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