Equestrylvania

by Brony_Fife

Original Sin, Part I

“Let’s review, then shall we?”

The teacher turns around to meet his audience. The Royal Guards present stand at rapt attention as his ice-blue eyes descend on them. He pushes back a lock of platinum-blonde hair from his pale face and clears his throat. “First question,” he says, his baritone becoming more serious. “How can you tell when someone has been possessed by a demon?”

One of the ponies raises a hoof. He points to him. “When they possess knowledge they couldn’t possibly know.” The guardspony is rewarded with an approving nod. Their teacher turns and writes the answer on the board behind him. He turns and points to another raised hoof.

“When they perform acts that they would otherwise be unable to do?”

At this, their teacher raises an eyebrow. “Can you name any precise examples?”

The guardspony nods back. “Such as a pegasus performing telekinesis, an earth pony being able to fly, or a unicorn having vast amounts of physical strength.”

The answer is added to the board, along with the examples. He rests his chalk and returns his attention to his audience, his hands behind his back. Another hoof is raised. “When they have an extremely low body temperature.”

Added.

“When they have powerfully negative reactions to holy objects.”

Added.

“And what counts as a holy object?” asks the teacher.

“Anything used for religious worship,” comes the answer.

His blue eyes flicker for a passing moment. “Can you be more specific?” he asks evenly.

The guardspony swallows. “R-Right. Objects such as sacred symbols used to represent the personal sacrifice of gods or immortal beings…”

Added.

“…Prayers given to holy beings…”

Added.

“…And, uh…”

His daunting eyes seem to pierce the guardspony as he thinks harder. Another hoof is raised, gaining the teacher’s attention. “Weapons or objects made from wood, water, or metals that have been blessed by priests.”

Added.

Down goes the chalk. Their teacher looks at them, his face still as stern as before. “All right, let’s move along. We know the signs of someone possessed. Now. How are we certain that the demon and his host are not collaborating with one other in some form of mutual pact?” Somewhere during his question, a ghost-white figure walks by the lecture hall’s door, just out of the corner of the teacher’s eye, disappearing before he can focus on him.

As his students begin raising hooves, Alucard returns his gaze to them and begins gathering more answers. Outside the lecture room, Aeon walks by briskly, now in his original human form. He checks his Stopwatch and puts it back into his coat pocket, making a mental note to make time to fix it. In addition to its strange effects when its powers are activated, it’s at least a few seconds behind.

His walk through Castle Canterlot is a thought-provoking one. Such architecture as built by creatures long-believed to be either dumb pack animals or outright myths, yet can still be compared to the most beautiful and intricate constructions of man. The bright, angelic colors really bring the design together, acting as a sort of glue that binds together both the regal and the godly.

Aeon hears a voice and looks in its direction. Inside the ballroom, a large human instructs his guardspony pupils on how to defeat a vampire. His aging features do little to impede the raw courage he exudes, his long brown jacket and dusty red hair complimenting his overall strength.

“The vampire is a creature of deception,” he says to his students. "Creatures of dark powers. They say a vampire is created when he steals the soul of a demon." He walks slowly across the front of his audience. "That said, their powers are great... but that doesn't mean they're invincible." He stops in front of a training mannequin.

"Let's say this fine fellow," he says as he pets the mannequin, "is a vampire. He has all the powers of a demon, but none of the contract details. No restraints. How can he be defeated?"

The man takes a step back. He brings out his weapon of choice—a long, black leather whip—and with an effortless flick, knocks off the mannequin’s head with a jarring crack.

The head rolls along the floor to the man’s foot. He kicks it upward and catches it in his free hand, lifting it like a prize. “Quite simply, really. They are weak against holy objects, same as any other demon. Magic is also effective, as is the alchemy that gave the vampires life. But in every case, you must remember one thing.” He tosses the head into a pile of abused mannequins and puts away his whip. "Always, always, always aim for the head."

He turns to his students. “All right, troops,” he says. “Today’s lesson is complete. You know what time it is now!” He and a few of the nearby castle servants begin setting up targets for his students as they ready throwing knives, axes, and magic crosses.

Aeon continues his trek to the Princesses’ throne room, passing by a few castle servants as they wave to him. He returns their wave as he continues on his way, walking through the castle’s indoor garden. The exotic flora secretes a wonderful smell that seems to cleanse the entire area, as well as paint the otherwise deep-green garden with a splash of wild colors here and there.

He looks up as he sees another human—this one a tall woman with long black hair and ivory-white skin—leaning against a pillar with a detached look in her ice-blue eyes. The outside light bathes her dark clothing and armor in a splendid glow, drawing special attention to the exotic tattoos that line her arms. She looks to him as he nears.

“Aeon,” she says, her voice a tired monotone.

He checks his Stopwatch. Well, despite the fact that his stopwatch is at least thirty seconds off, Aeon decides there’s enough time for a chat. Not to mention that failing to acknowledge the personal sacrifice of those involved in this mission would make them feel unappreciated. Wouldn’t want that!

Snapping the Stopwatch shut, Aeon holds out his hand to shake hers. She does so, but only hesitantly. “I do hope our equine comrades are not leaving you bored, Shanoa,” says Aeon.

“Not at all,” she responds, her emotionless face unmoving. “I was able to go through some of their spellbooks, and found some new runes I can make Glyphs out of.”

“I take it you have been practicing?”

Shanoa nods. “Been putting in the training. I’ve had trouble finding partners, though.”

“Alucard and Julius seem to have taken it upon themselves to teach what they know. Perhaps you could offer that same service?”

At this, Shanoa shakes her head. “It’s a fine suggestion, Aeon; but no, I don’t think my powers are something that can be taught. There are magic-users here, but… they…” Her eyes dart about.

Suddenly, something fast and red bursts out of the bushes. Without a moment’s pause, Shanoa turns and parries an axe blow—an ethereal sword suddenly materializing from the tattoos on her arm. A sickle forms in her left hand as she brings it up for a counterstrike, only for her quarry to push her away and dodge the slash.

He laughs as Shanoa brings down an axe, he chortles as she swings a blade, he guffaws as she thrusts a rapier. He leaps and feints and misleads and with a final ducking dodge, he springs back up, getting Shanoa in the chin with the butt end of the axe he carries. She loses the feeling in her legs for a split-second—long enough for her red-coated enemy to give one of her armored knees a kick, putting her down in a humiliating bow. The axe head hovers just to the side of Shanoa’s neck.

The red-coated man’s blue eyes shimmer with good humor, complimenting the rest of his youthful facial features. His blonde hair is tousled by the wind as it blows by. “Do you admit defeat?” he asks in a young, heroic voice.

Shanoa looks up to him, her face unreadable. Suddenly, she lunges upward, swatting away his axe with a sickle, her lance materializing with its point only an inch from his face. The two combatants hang there, as if frozen in time. “Never,” she growls.

Her enemy smirks, his adolescent cockiness never waning. “Might wanna look down, Shanoa,” he says. He holds the axe upside-down, the blade meeting Shanoa’s stomach. One good upward swing would rend Shanoa in half—or failing that, leave a lethal stomach wound.

Despite the ferocity behind every strike, there is finesse and self-restraint within these warriors. Aeon grins and applauds their match. “Good show, Jonathan!” Aeon cheers. “Very good show! You actually managed a stalemate against Shanoa this time.”

Jonathan Morris—for that is the blonde young man’s name—stifles a half-offended laugh. “Oh, come on!” he says. “I’ve beaten her at least a few times now.”

Shanoa takes this moment to her advantage, using her lance to swipe the axe out of Jonathan’s hands and sending him to the ground with a kick. She keeps him well-placed with a heel, her lance again pointed at his face. “Yeah, a distraction,” Jonathan snorts. “Like that’s fair.”

“Pay closer attention to your enemies,” she says curtly. “Dracula’s minions may strike at any time. They won’t be fair.” With that, Shanoa’s lance disintegrates back into the tattoo on her arm. She turns and leaves the garden, walking by a few earth pony servants who eye her with caution after having witnessed such a brutal turnabout.

Aeon helps Jonathan up. “My apologies,” he says. "I did not intend to distract you."

“Don’t be sorry.” Jonathan looks in Shanoa’s direction and shakes his head, annoyed. “Jeez. Shanoa’s all business, all the time. Girl needs to loosen up a little.”

“Sparring is serious business, Jonathan,” Aeon says. “The more seriously you train, the more seriously you fight.”

Jonathan breathes a sigh. “You guys remind me of every instructor I’ve ever had.” He looks Aeon straight in the eye. “You have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. No problem.”

Aeon puts a reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “But I do trust you, Jonathan. If I did not, you would not be here.” He looks around a second. “By the way, where is your little girlfriend?”

Jonathan scowls and looks away, blushing. “Shesnotmygirlfriend,” he says quickly.

Aeon chortles as the two continue on their way out of the garden. “But the two of you are just so comfortable around each other. You share a connection even many married couples do not possess.”

They pass down a hallway, the windows allowing the morning light to spill on the two comrades. Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Look, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times. Charlotte. Is not. My girlfriend. She’s been my best friend since we were kids. She’s like my baby sister, almost.”

Aeon’s smile widens. “Many of the most successful marriages I know of were born from strong bonds formed as childhood friends.”

They walk for some more silence. Aeon finally looks aside at Jonathan and is greeted by a scowl. Jonathan glowers and looks forward. “Quit suggesting it,” he says silently.

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t true.”

“Because you will not allow it to be true? Or because Charlotte will not allow it to be true? Marriage is an agreement between two people, after all.”

Jonathan groans and waves a hand impatiently. “Why do I even talk to you?”

Up ahead, the throne room doors are open. Aeon tries not to stare at how very, very tall the ornate doors are, but he finds them so impressive that not staring might come off as a bigger insult. The two unicorn guardsponies at the door look to the incoming duo. Aeon nods to them.

“I have returned to deliver a report from Twilight Sparkle to the Princesses.”

The guardsponies nod and, with some effort, open the door. The two humans walk in to a rather amusing sight.

In front of Celestia’s throne is the previously-mentioned Charlotte Aulin. Her long brown hair is tied back into a smart bun, a pair of reading glasses at the bridge of her nose. Her shawl is forsaken from her wardrobe for now, her white blouse and deep blue skirt and socks making her look even more like a young librarian. She sits demurely in front of the Princess of the Sun, several books piled all around her. Aeon looks at them a little more closely and notices they are notebooks, many with tags and notes sticking out.

Next to Celestia’s throne sits her sister Luna. The difference between them is startling—the elder sister is bright and cheerful in her appearance, while the younger sister is dark and moody in hers. Both are equally beautiful creatures, their eyes and voices and shimmering, otherworldly manes complimenting their overall regal forms.

Luna sits at a small tea table across from another young human. This one is ghost-white in his appearance—much like Aeon. His white ankle-length coat stands out more than any of his other features, except perhaps his pale blue eyes and ivory hair. He sips his tea as he turns his attention to the two visitors, his boyish face half-hidden by the raised teacup.

“All right,” Charlotte says, noticing that other business is at hand, “May I ask you one more question before I go, Your Highness?”

Celestia nods. “Of course, but only one more for today.”

Charlotte looks down at her open book and readies a pen. “All right. Can you tell me more about the zebra culture you mentioned earlier?”

Celestia's horn shimmers as a book from her own pile is floated over to Charlotte. Its cover says Zebra Culture. "As you may read in this book, their vast knowledge of magical alchemies—potions and incantations thereof—come from their long lineage of tribal teachings and other ancient practices.”

Charlotte nods. “I see,” she says as she puts down her pen and thumbs through the book, her baby-blue eyes drinking in words and pictures faster than she realizes. “It’s interesting that many of these equine races seem to mirror, almost perfectly, the practices of several human races. These zebras, for example, remind me of the African negro tribes.”

The young man in white nearly spits out his tea. After choking it down, he clears his throat. “The, uh… what... tribes?”

She looks to him with a smile. “African negro tribes, Soma. You know—colored people.”

Soma looks to Charlotte with a kind of patient awkwardness. The confusion in his eyes dissipates when he remembers the vast difference in the eras in which Charlotte and he grew up. Still, he’s grateful his half-black friend Hammer isn’t here to hear this. That and it’s always awkward hearing such terminology from the mouth of someone in his own age group.

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Charlotte, please stop pestering royalty. It’s embarrassing.”

Celestia raises a hoof to her mouth and giggles. “Oh, nonsense, Jonathan! Charlotte is merely a mind eager to grow. She reminds me so much of my own student—always ready to expand her knowledge in whatever way she can.”

Charlotte beams at Jonathan in a way that feels almost comically insulting. She nods at him, as if expecting an apology. He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Either way, I don't think it's okay to—”

“Silence!” bellows Luna from the tea table. Her sudden outburst causes Soma to nearly drop his teacup. “Thou address Our sister in naught less than insolence! Is that any way for an honorable warrior to engage a Princess?”

Jonathan bows. “I apologize, Your Highness. That outburst was… discorellous of me.”

“Discourteous, Jonathan,” Charlotte corrects as she puts all her notebooks in a bag for later study. “The word you’re looking for is discourteous.”

Jonathan shoots her an impatient grin. “That outburst was discourteous of me,” he says.

Celestia nods. “Jonathan, you must learn to be more like your friend Julius Belmont. Now he is a real gentleman.” Her smile broadens. “Always mindful of the fairer sex, eager to help, slow to anger, good with children…”

Luna suddenly sports a mischievous smile, her flowery language disappearing along with her anger. “Why, Sister! It appears you bear much fascination for Sir Julius. If I knew no better, I might assume you wish he were born a stallion instead of a man.”

For the third time in as many minutes, Soma fights the tea that threatens to shoot out of his mouth in surprise. Inwardly, he wonders why he always drinks tea when someone says something shocking.

Celestia blushes at Luna’s assertion. “Finish your tea, my sister,” she says brusquely. “If Aeon is here, that means he brings development on my student’s crusade against Dracula.”

Aeon then nods and turns to his friends in the room. “Indeed, Your Highness. For the rest of you, please continue to train and teach her soldiers your arts until further notice. I appreciate your continued participation and patience in this confusing situation.”

Silence as the three humans and few remaining Royal Guards leave the room. After the large double-doors close, Aeon draws out the message from his jacket and hands it to Celestia. Luna steps up beside her sister to read over her shoulder—a vice she’s had since she was a child. All three read the scroll…

---

When Aeon exits the throne room, Soma watches him as he makes his way back to the garden. He thinks nothing of it until he realizes that, oddly enough, Aeon could have simply “dimension-hopped” back to Equestria right after receiving the Princess’ response message. The unnerved grimace on the time-traveler’s face does nothing to assuage his concern.

Soma purses his lips in thought, watching Aeon as he takes a seat near the red roses. He plucks one and smells it. There's a look in his eyes, a faraway look that suggests he remembers something.

Soma draws near, slowly, unsurely. Is it truly his place to question the motives of a time-traveler? All the things Aeon has seen and experienced, tasted and felt—all these things must certainly make him a better man than he. But still, Aeon’s odd behavior is just… becoming odder and odder.

Aeon looks up as he stands next to him. Soma nods to the bench, wordlessly asking if he may have a seat. Aeon places the plucked rose onto his pure-white jacket pocket. The contrast the spot of red makes against his white coat is striking.

“Is there something you would like to ask me, Soma?” he asks softly.

Soma doesn’t take the seat, thinking it better to look around, his serene blue eyes picking apart the garden, checking for anyone who might listen in. They return to Aeon hesitantly. “…You OK?”

Aeon smiles. Even his smile feels odd; unnatural. Like there’s no reason for it to be there on Aeon’s face. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Soma puts his hands in his jacket pockets and tries his best to make and maintain eye contact. It’s like watching a shy boy try to recite lessons in front of a class. “Well, I mean during this whole, uh... crusade against Dracula, you occasionally took some of us with you to these worlds to fight his minions...”

“Yes. Yes, I did. And you did a masterful job in defeating Olrox, by the way.”

Soma blushes and looks away. “Thank you. But... well… um…” He takes a deep breath and returns to meet Aeon's gaze. “You haven’t done that… lately.”

Aeon’s gaze turns to the garden for a moment, before slowly making its way back to Soma. He sighs through his nose and nods, a curtain of melancholy draping over the action. “No, I suppose I have not.”

“Well, why not?” Soma asks earnestly. “This land of Equestria is all that stands between Dracula and his regeneration. And if that happens—”

“He will become even more powerful and embark on a voyage to conquer all creation, I know,” Aeon says in a tone Soma has rarely heard from him. It’s still as calm and dry as his voice always has been, but there is frustration present beneath his monotone.

“Well then, why not at least take me or Jonathan back with you? Or Alucard?”

Aeon shakes his head. “That is… something... I…” The thought Aeon attempts to project dies on its way to becoming words. It is rare he finds such difficulty in expressing himself—usually only saying what needs to be said. But now? How to explain…

Soma raises an eyebrow. “Aeon? Aeon, is there something wrong? I know your powers are beginning to dull, we all know. But—”

“They are not dulling,” Aeon says in a quiet, controlled voice. “It is not just my powers that are fading. They are fading as a result of…” He breathes in deeply, then turns and looks Soma Cruz in the eyes.

“Soma… I’m dying.”

Those two words linger there. I’m dying. The two words that seal a personal fate, the two words that admit one’s mortality, the two words Soma never imagined he’d hear a time traveler say.

Aeon clenches his teeth as he looks to the rose on his jacket. He pulls it out of his breast pocket and analyzes it. “I might not be physically aging, but I can feel it. Like a flower that blooms in spring and wilts in the fall, I can feel time now." He frowns, his voice becoming almost... angry. "Janine was right when she told me I'd become so arrogant, so used to merely observing time, I… I never knew what it was like to feel time as it slipped away from me, simply because I was not mortal like you or your friends...”

Soma holds his breath when Aeon mentions Janine, feels a cold at his back. He does not wish to hear more. No more about Janine. No more about how great she was (And she was), no more about how clever she was (And she was). The entire group understood what they'd lost when they'd lost Janine. They'd lost a lot.

They'd lost Aeon, for starters.

Despairingly, Aeon lets the rose fall to the ground. Soma watches it flutter weakly, landing soundlessly. “My time is short,” Aeon continues. “My time is nearly… over. I have become so very weak.”

He pulls out his Stopwatch, the very tool he uses to stop time. It opens with a click. Aeon watches the seconds tick by. “I must rely on machines and relics to do things I used to be able to do merely by thinking or wanting it to happen. And even then, I cannot use Janine's devices to their fullest.”

The hour hand is approaching a number Soma hadn’t noticed before—thirteen. A frown bothers his mouth as Aeon snaps the Stopwatch shut and looks to him again. “Our final battle with Dracula draws nearer and nearer. Partly because I am certain he and his forces will attempt an attack on this castle, and partly because I cannot do it anyway, I will not take any of you along with me to Equestria.”

“...Is there any other way for us to get to Equestria?” Soma asks, his eyes pleading.

Silence. Aeon sighs. “Soma. I understand your situation. It is not such an easy thing to take, but you must not feel responsible for Dracula’s actions.”

Soma’s body language changes, from a shy boy into a teenager demanding his right to his family’s fortune. “But I am Dracula. Aeon, if there is any chance I can undo my past self’s sins, then—”

Aeon waves away Soma’s response impatiently, not unlike a father attempting to finish his thought before his children interrupt. “When I spirited you away from your time period as our world's entire continuum collapsed to nothingness, I did not do it to give you a chance at righting whatever Dracula wrongs. You might have inherited his soul, and his powers, but you did not inherit responsibility for Dracula's actions. You must learn to put all that behind you.”

Soma pauses for a moment before breathing deeply. He rocks on his heels, awkwardly, shifting about a little. “...All right. But, Aeon, does anyone else know that you’re…?”

Aeon stands up. “None that I know of, although I am certain at least Charlotte and Alucard have both figured it out on their own.” The Stopwatch is put away, the rose on the ground now forgotten. The first man in white walks by the other, a look of determination coming over him.

As Aeon walks away, Soma calls out to him. “Good luck. We’re all rooting for you.”

Aeon pauses. Then turns. Then nods. Then disappears without making a sound, leaving Soma Cruz alone with the plucked rose.

---

Rose can see it. Rose can see it and smell it and taste it and hear it and feel it and above all else fear it. It’s all over her, crawling and screaming. It’s red. Blood red. It stops crawling and screaming, but it still poisons and frightens as it claws its way into Rose. She looks aside as she strangely feels no pain, and sees that all the other ponies are red, blood red.

All the blood red ponies are screaming and crawling over one another, smothering Rose. Desperate. There’s desperation. Anger. Distrust. The blood red ponies mash into one another as they begin to fall down an abyss. They become one thing. They form a body, then an ocean, then a monster, then a wail, then a death. They die just as they smash through a mirror that reflects what each pony really looks like, and the reflections hardly flatter them.

The pieces of the mirror fall without a sound, they fall to the ground like seeds. The ground opens up for them, swallows them. Then the ground begins to twist and distort until it gives birth to a creature unlike anything Rose has ever seen before. The creature looks up to the blood red ponies. The wails of the desperate, angry, distrustful ocean body fall silent mid-scream, as if suddenly devoured by silence.

And the Castle watches it all. Smiling. There’s no way for a Castle to smile, but it does, and Rose can see it. Rose can see it and smell it and taste it and hear it and feel it…

…and above all else, fear it.

Comments

[Clocklike]

"Always, always, always aim for the head."

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