V ~ The Sun and Moon
V
The Sun and Moon
Galatea’s travels to the North were to be neither short nor easy. Strange, it all felt, to venture beyond the forested realm she had called her home for so long. But once she left the forests and crossed the plains, it became abundantly clear to her that a change had come over this land. For where there was once war and death and famine, peace had come, a renewed blessing upon all.
The Three Tribes, just as Lilja announced, had come together. War-torn lands were rebuilt with their collective effort, from the once-burnt fields to ruined cities, all flourished under their guidance. Pegasi guards on patrol stood with earthpony farmers toiling the fields, while unicorn mages in their castles tinkered away with their spells, all working in concert to ensure that no other Winter should be as deadly as the one before.
They had a long way to go, Galatea could tell, in mastering the weather and the land upon which they lived and toiled, but it was steady progress. So as the seasons went by, did the land change. More hamlets and villages sprung up. Trade began to flourish. And all around, peace reigned. That was good, Galatea concluded. It smoothed her travels. Throughout, she mingled amongst her mortal kindred, moving between the shadows, yet always watching.
Now, however, though she was far away from the hamlet, she found herself in the form of an earthpony more often than not. At first, she chalked it up to convenience. Expending her magic to shift forms, day and night, could be so costly to her health.
As time went by, each second its own eternity, she found it preferable. Where once it had been mere convenience, her disguise became comfort, even as it necessitated longer travel times, with the skies closed to her. She could be closer to the ponies now, observing their livelihoods, much like she’d lived with Broadleaf Heart and his fellow villagers.
She grew bolder still. Where once she’d foraged for food, scouring the forest floor for whatever was edible to her delicate earthpony palate, she now emerged closer to villages and small towns, blending in with all the others as if she’d always belonged.
She would even offer her trade, honed by what she’d learned in the hamlet, going from town to town providing service to those who required it, whether it be moving stone and timber to raise the walls, or labour down at the farmlands. It was here that Galatea saw that where her hamlet had traded by barter, now valuable metals were given in exchange for goods and services.
Currency, it was called. And currency, she would learn, made this brave new world turn, just as the Sun and Moon turned around the world.
But where the landowners and lords of the Three Tribes benefitted from the labour of all, and the merchants and artisans lived well enough, the peasantry earned the least, and a drifter perhaps even less. Field work gave her meager pay, just about what she needed to live without foraging for food. Yet when she did have excess wealth in her possession, no matter how scant, there was always someone amongst her fellow labourers who needed it more than she.
For she was Galatea, and she was an alicorn. This much, she’d always known.
It felt hollow, at times. No matter how she’d like to pretend otherwise, the needs of the mortals were constant, just as she remained unchanging beneath this facade. Yet so often did she behold their faces light up when she gave them fair share, that it made all the difference.
And as ever, once she felt that she’d seen and experienced all she needed, Galatea continued on her way, all the way to the Frozen North, and the land of Adlaborn.
* * * * *
The land of the Reindeer was unlike any Galatea had ever seen before.
Nested deep within the mountains and valleys that lay beyond the tundra, the journey there was not for the faint-hearted. Yet even in these harsh conditions, Adlaborn’s gates remained open to all who wished to visit its hallowed halls, to take refuge within their walls, those who sought comfort away from the troubles that plagued their thoughts.
So Galatea went with them, one of many pilgrims venturing North. Plenty had their own reasons. One wished to see the land with his own eyes. Another wished to learn from the artisans. Some, naturally, merely wished to bed a Reindeer.
Many turned away before they could even glimpse the mountains. Many still persisted, such as Galatea herself, bracing against the cold winds with her dear cloak. In this harsh weather, the Reindeer thread it was spooled from proved as well-suited as it ought be, bringing warmth to her whereas others shivered. Earthpony that she was on the outside, for once she allowed herself this small selfishness. Rarely did any die from the cold upon this road now, it was said.
Those who travelled onward, in time, came upon the pine forest. Here, a set few markers with the ever-present sigil of the snowflake upon them informed Galatea and others in her party that they had crossed the threshold, into the domain of the Reindeer. The trees stood tall and imposing, looming over the procession. Yet the lone Reindeer guide who emerged from the forest brought comfort and guidance, and so they went on, down the winding path.
At the path’s end was a wall. Not a wall of stones or rocks or mortar, but a wall of flora, hedgerows with mighty branches intertwined with thick, impenetrable leaves. Carved upon the branches were mysterious symbols that glowed a deep blue.
Before their mystified eyes, the silent stag who had guided them pressed upon the snowflake mark etched so prominently in the wood, and stepped back. The wood parted like water, rustling leaves and retreating wood revealing an entrance.
Past the gates, at the head of the group, Galatea beheld the hidden city Lilja had spoken of. And it was beautiful.
Little remained of the permafrost of the tundra, or moss that covered the land beyond the wall. Rolling green hills and cobbled roads greeted the procession. The scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air, and warmth emanated from all around, from the very air to the path beneath their hooves. It was not difficult to imagine warm hearths within each of these homes.
Homes that, as Galatea passed them by, struck her in appearance. They were very much unlike any mossy hut or stone cottage or even mighty castle that she’d seen in her travels. Had she not taken a second glance, she would have mistaken them for very old, very intricate trees, were it not for the glowing gems of many colours hung from branches and vines all around them. For where ponykind built their homes from what had been provided to them, these were homes grown and nurtured, from what must have been tiny saplings like those of forests so long ago.
The people, too, shone, in many ways. There was little to be seen of the hardships from beyond their walls. The Reindeer kept to themselves, hushed whispers, with only the occasional laughter of children playing amongst the bushes and the trees. But a few glances Galatea risked towards the open windows, and she felt warmth upon sighting families sharing a quiet dinner, or couples sharing a moment before the open fireplace.
It was a welcome warmth. A warmth they shared with all, Galatea observed. Lilja’s generosity had not been an exception. Of the travelers in her party, from the poor to the grief-stricken, all were welcome, taken into homes of their own. A few offered money, yet this was turned away, whether it be for food or shelter. The Reindeer asked for little, yet provided much, just like the gifts Lilja had brought to the hamlet. And when Galatea asked a passing stag however long they could stay, his answer was succinct and welcome;
“As long as they need to.”
Before long, the crowd she’d travelled with had dissipated, whether it be to feast or to rest. Whatever their goals were, whatever they sought, some had found them, while others forgot. All were welcome here, even those who weren’t of the purest intent, and Galatea found she had little to blame them for. Soon, only Galatea remained, observing.
It was here that, though tempted to mingle with the Reindeer and to join with the others and seek her own shelter, Galatea parted from them, sneaking away from the ponies’ awestruck eyes, out towards the towering castle in the distance.
Wherever the children might be, surely, it had to be where the Reindeer King resided. With only but little hesitation, Galatea set out to the tallest, northernmost peak in all the Great Continent.
* * * * *
Climbing the mountain was trivial. Maybe the strength of her legwork even gave her satisfaction that flight would have not. The Sun had not yet set by the time Galatea arrived at the walls, beholding its imposing might. Pausing a while to gaze down below, Galatea saw the land of Adlaborn, a vast expanse of rolling hills and forest groves. The glow from its greatest city, Vologda, shone bright even in the fading light of the evening. And as she returned to contemplate the castle, she saw it was not quite the true peak of the mountain. A little ways farther above the castle’s tallest parapet, the ascent of the rock continued, ending at last in a plateau atop of which she just made out the faint silhouette of a solitary cloud-pine.
But as it was the castle which held her interest, she poised herself to scale the walls. Or she would have done, had she not noticed a small wooden door, off to the side.
This was convenient. She turned to inspect it. The snowflake mark was etched upon the door. But before she could even begin to figure out how to unlatch it with whatever hidden mechanism it contained, Galatea brushed a hoof against the door, brushing away snow. The sigil lit up with a brilliant blue, and the lock turned.
The ease by which she’d opened this back-door actually took her aback. Yes, was this not the land of the givers? But she had chosen not to hail what doorkeeper may await at the castle gates. She came here furtively, as a thief would in the night. To pretend otherwise would be falsehood.
A saying she’d once heard, most fleetingly passing from between the lips of the matriarch Bright Hearth, that one time the collectors of their hamlet’s faraway liege had come requesting tribute, now crossed Galatea’s mind.
‘Every great house has a servant’s entrance.’
But this could not align with the Reindeer as she had seen them. For whom, then, was this door? A door which let her enter as easily as into a windmill. On this instance of that afternoon, it took Galatea what seemed the longest time to reach a conclusion, though it must have taken no longer than a minute. This door was for her. Or those like her.
Still wondering what that meant, Galatea crossed the doorway, and into the castle.
She hadn’t been inside any castles before, so there was little she could do to compare. The imposing, rock-hewn facade had been just that, a facade. Past its walls, the interior was much like the longhall of the hamlet, warm and comforting, with tapestries hanging and soft carpet rolled across the stony floor. Candles all around illuminated the hallway she later entered under an orange glow.
Now, to find the children. Galatea’s eyes darted left and right, searching, seeking any clue that they’d been here...
There. In the air, just off to the side, a very fine trail of stardust.
Where before she’d only perceived the golden, ethereal motes here and there, always in the corner of her eye, here it practically sparkled, if she just tried hard enough to see. All living beings left it in their trails, but those who’d been gifted with reason and craft were those imbued in it and who exuded it twice over. Especially the Reindeer, being the ones most attuned.
A Scribe, Mother had once called her. Lilja, too, and the stag guide, had left such trails. But Galatea had reason to believe this particular trail was a mere trickle in a river. In her hamlet, the children were so very fond of Lilja’s talent. What was to say these two sisters weren’t, as well?
Taking a long, deep breath, Galatea followed the trail, at a trot. She almost broke into full gallop. Best to remain careful. Yet nothing else mattered to her then and there, nothing else but the notion that she would no longer be alone.
Following the trail, through winding halls and room after room, Galatea arrived at a garden.
* * * * *
It was a strange, wonderful little garden. Were it not for the lights hung from branches, shimmering with a brilliant glow of a pale blue, or the snowflake marks once every few pine trees, it would have seemed to Galatea a grove like any other. Yet here, the air was permeated with stardust, more than anywhere. So she continued on her way, careful not to disturb the wild, but tidily lean grass with her steps. She followed a small cobbled path, small and out of the way, weaving around the trees. Above, the afternoon Sun cast a dim orange light through the clouds.
A good few moments after she first arrived, Galatea paused where she stood, just at the treeline. Hidden by a few pine branches, she stood in silence, her gaze falling upon the only other ponies in this secluded garden.
There were two of them, just as Lilja had described.
One with a coat and feathers of alabaster, beautiful as the morning snow, her free-flowing mane a pleasant pink. Ten years young, Galatea estimated. The other, smaller one was a pale blue, of a lighter shade in her mane. Five, perhaps. They were playing, with one another, tumbling in the grass, the white one laughing as she ran circles ’round her sister.
Upon their flanks, Galatea saw their marks. The Sun for the elder, and the Moon for the younger.
“You can’t catch me, can’t catch me!” the older one yelled, in a sing-song voice. Her baby sister, little wings fluttering in a futile attempt to follow, could do nothing but sit down on the grass, her little black bow ajar.
“No fair!” she exclaimed. “Tia!”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” said Celestia, though her smile betrayed her underlying cheer. She sat down on the grass, letting Luna approach her in a wobbly little walk. Her little sister tripped onto the grass, prompting a guffaw from her.
Their laughter continued, filling the ambience of this sanctuary. High-pitched, childish, yet… It was beautiful, to Galatea’s ears.
Now Luna stood, with a determined frown. Her horn shot out tiny sparks. Not very stellar. They fell upon the grass with nary a crackle.
Celestia shook her head, giggling. She hopped onto her hooves, flicking her mane, and then pointed her horn at Luna, lighting up with a brilliant glow.
“Watch this,” she said.
Before Galatea could shout and step forth from the treeline, Celestia fired off a spell.
A trail of golden light and dust shot out, sparks landing harmlessly upon the grass. It danced around Luna, drawing her awestruck eyes upon it, before it shot up into the air and exploded into a shower of shimmering glitter.
Luna burst into giggles. Celestia smirked.
“See?” she said, smug as a ten-year old could be. “Maybe if you practice, you can do it–”
“Celestia!” a tired, weary voice called out. “What did I tell you about casting spells around your sister?”
“Aww, but Firefly, you saw that!” Celestia protested, just as the elderly mare emerged into view. The pegasus mare looked older than even Bright Hearth, her coat so faded one could scarcely tell it might once have been pink, yet her purple eyes still looked just as sharp as Broadleaf’s. “She liked it!”
“Da!” Luna answered, nodding vigorously. But this had little effect on the mare – Firefly – who promptly shook her head.
“You know very well what I mean, young lady,” chided Firefly. “Now come along, Starswirl and Sint are waiting for you,”
“Do I really have to go now?” Celestia bemoaned.
“You seemed so proud of your spells a moment ago,” Firefly retorted, smiling. She hoisted Luna onto her back, with good care. “But if you want, I could let you practice for just a few more–”
“Alright!” Celestia interrupted. “So I will.”
She pointed her horn up, and fired off another spell, much like one earlier, showering them all in golden dust once more, amidst Luna’s cheers and Celestia’s laughter.
Still hidden beneath the shade, Galatea’s mind was racing, Her heart thumped and thumped, her breathing ran shallow, a chill running down her spine.
They had family here. They were taken care of.
Above all, they were happy.
But they were leaving. Firefly and Luna were heading off into the ornate foliage of the grove, escorted by Celestia at a steady trot. It was now or never.
Just as Galatea moved a hoof forward, to cross the treeline and introduce herself to the trio, a voice sounded in her mind.
‘Stop.’
A simple command, uttered with a reverb so distant and yet close all at once that Galatea could not tell who had uttered it.
It did its work. She froze where she stood, unsure if she should move.
‘Do not interfere.’
Interfere?
… Was that what she was doing?
It couldn’t have been. She was here, here as close as she could be to the two ponies she was closest to. Two ponies who may, at last, give her all that she needed.
‘Their path is not yours, Galatea. Remain where you are.’
They were family.
She was here. She had to see them.
She needed to see them.
“No… no, no,” Galatea whispered, her breathing growing shallower by the second. “Please just… just let me–”
‘Stop.’
The voice was harsher now. Mother had never been so unkind before.
‘Remain where you are. Follow your command.’
“Hello?”
The soft voice of Celestia cut in. Galatea’s eyes snapped open. There, the little white foal’s eyes were glancing in her direction, her head tilted. Galatea held her breath.
“Is… is someone there?”
Celestia couldn’t see her here. The shade of the pine trees and bushes kept her covered. She wanted to say something. Had to say something. Call upon the little alicorn.
But who was she to do this. She was a stranger to her. Nothing more. She had found herself in that old forest again, watching a little bird.
Nothing more than a shadow.
Holding back her tears, Galatea turned and ran from the only ones she could call family.
* * * * *
The howling wind blew past Galatea, threatening to dislodge her off the mountainside. No orderly and inviting roadway guided her steps here, on the far side. It was solely to the nimble tread of her hooves, the hooves of an earthpony, that she entrusted each step would not send her tumbling, should a ledge prove treacherous. No wings or horn were there to lift her up. She did not care, she could not care. Nothing else lay in her mind. Her downward climb went on, against the harsh gusts that clawed at her face, billowing her cape in her wake. She did not look back, nor did she falter. Her eyes felt warm and cold. Her steps, heavier by the second.
She knew not how long her descent lasted. Only that once the wind subsided, and the weight of everything which bore down on her became too much, she did halt, halfway from the peak of this moutain. And she saw she’d come to a clearing upon a friendly slope in the mountsaide. A winding path led farther in, ornamented by hanging lanterns every dozen paces to light the way.
The weather was clear this far up, even halfway. The setting Sun cast a warm light over her. Soon, once it had set, the Northern Lights would come to join the Moon. Yet all thoughts of comfort were burnt away, buried, torn asunder. She panted, restlessly pacing back and forth.
Until she willed her breath to slow, laying on the cold ground while she let her thoughts settle. But all coalesced into the single one which denied her mind its peace.
‘It’s not fair.’
Nothing. No one to answer her, but the wind. Galatea shook her head, with gritted teeth. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear at herself. She wanted to stomp and shatter the very mountain at her back.
All that came out was a whisper, close to a whimper.
“It’s… it’s not fair. It’s not fair...”
A mere echo, carried by the breeze, disappearing into the ether. A pitiful unheard noise, as she would ever be. Nothing came of it, nothing but her heavy breathing, and her own sobbing, to break the dreary silence. She lay there for some time, with only the wind and snow for company. The cold had never bit her as hard as it did now, the crushing weight bearing down on her, hundreds and hundreds of years’ worth of it…
She knew not how long she lay there, alone, till she heard the air stir behind her. Wiping away at tears frozen upon her cheek, Galatea sat up straight, ready to meet this intruder.
“Oh, good evening.”
Galatea had heard that voice before. Wizened, weary, yet with a touch of spryness. When she turned to meet her, a moment’s glimpse was all she needed to ascertain the mare’s identity.
“Why… why have you come here?” Galatea asked aloud.
Too loud, perhaps. It echoed on until it faded with the wind. Yet the mare opposite her said nothing to that.
Firefly was old, that much Galatea could tell. Beneath the warm cloak she wore, the pink in her coat had faded, as had her mane, styled in a proper bun that belied what must once have been unruly Iris blue. Her aged wings were held tucked against her body. The wrinkles around her eyes ran deep. But her eyes, kind and compassionate and still a shocking purple, held a sharp look within them, coupled with her gentle smile.
“I thought I might find you here,” said Firefly, hobbling closer, leaning on her cane. Galatea winced yet remained rooted to her spot. “You gave the little ones quite the fright.”
“I… I am sorry,” Galatea said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Firefly chuckled. “Adlaborn’s gates are open to those who need it to be, my friend, and I have lived long enough to see and guide many who wish to seek clarity, here atop the world,” she said, her words slow and steady. “But the foals. Do you know them?”
Galatea drew her breath, tearing her gaze away from the other mare.
“I wish that I did,” she lamented, her forehooves tapping onto the ground in a steady rhythm. “I wish that… I wish that I knew them all my life. Yet it is not part of mine purpose to do so. It never has been, nor will it ever be.”
Silence followed. But there were no fading hoofsteps to punctuate it. Behind her, Galatea heard the ancient mare approach, closing the distance, till she stood by her. Ever so gently, Firefly set herself down, though a gap remained between them.
“Few can so easily wander through Zamok Ustyag, the castle of Sint Erklass,” said Firefly. “Only those whom it sees as kin, and those that are invited, may pass. And… what brings a stranger from a faraway hamlet all this way?”
Galatea’s heart skipped a beat. Firefly let out a soft chuckle.
“Lilja spoke of you,” she said. “The curious one amongst the villagers. Sharp-eyed, so strong in body and spirit, and yet alike to one who wears a coat she’s still growing into… You asked about little Celestia and Luna as well.”
Feeling her eyes well up once more, Galatea glared at her.
“What use are her words, when I am, and shall remain a stranger? I could be that villager, or I could be anyone else. It changes nothing. The foals are here, with those they can call family, while I–” The words flowed out in a stream, before she could stop. She sighed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to…”
Yet Firefly did not flinch, nor did she seem afraid.
“Perhaps you are a stranger. And I agree. It changes nothing.” She placed a decrepit wing over Galatea, ever so gently. “Because I see here yet another soul in need of aid. Please, if you would let me know?”
Galatea stiffened, but did not move. She looked down at the thin layer of snow beneath her.
“For the longest time,” Galatea began, feeling her worries ebb and flow, “I thought I was alone. That this burden shall always be mine to carry. That I alone shall watch.” She hesitated. No soul other than Broadleaf ought to know. Yet Firefly had offered her nothing but kindness, and lent her an ear, and so she went on. “But now I learn that I was not alone. That I have…”
The words danced at the tip of her tongue. It seemed strange then, to think that she had never been, and yet was, alone. Her eyes drifted towards her forehoof, chipped and cracked. For a passing moment, she imagined it whole and pristine, as she was in that old forest.
She pressed on.
“... That I have family. I know they are mine, if not in blood then in spirit. I know that… I know that they came when they were needed. I know that in time, they shall lead. Now I look upon them and I wonder, I wonder if…”
‘If they need me,’ Galatea finished, though she did not say it aloud.
But something must have caught Firefly’s eye.
“Do you wish to let them know?” said Firefly. “Their grandfather– well, adoptive grandfather– he does wonder if they have family, outside of this realm. He was friends with… I suppose you might call her their mother…”
Galatea’s head snapped up.
“Their mother? The Guardian of Joy… He knew her?”
“So he told me,” Firefly nodded. “Not that I saw for myself. I may be old, have seen things which to ponies of this new era are but a legend, yet even I am not that old. But this is not about me. My time shall not be long now, and the coming world belongs to the young.”
Be it knowingly, or by happenstance, there was something in those words which sounded recognisable to Galatea. And it did not take her long to remember why. From the recesses of her perfect memory, echoing, a farewell spoken before her eyes even saw the world…
“Good night, my little ones. When you awaken, the world will await you, and you in turn shall make it better. Now rest well. Dream of sweet things to come. And most of all, be brave.”
Such sadness, but such kindness, such hope, too. Such love.
… How could the one who’d said these words, a friend of the Guardian of Joy, deny her what might have been her greatest happiness?
“Did he know about me?” Galatea whispered, but so that Firefly heard her. “If he knew our mother, if now he looks after these fillies, then what of me?”
For one moment there, unease flashed in Firefly’s eye. “I’ve… I’ve no idea,” she said. “He only ever foretold me that one day, when all three tribes had again proven themselves worthy of those tasks long ago entrusted to them, so would the world provide. Which it did. And I’m glad that I’ve lived to see it…”
She sighed, a wheezing croak that bespoke all her years.
“Then is this it?” Galatea asked, to the air. “Is this the first second of eternity?”
“I’m sorry?” said Firefly.
“What kind of a watcher am I,” Galatea said bitterly, talking more to herself, “when you have lived ages longer than mortal lifespan of most, and I never knew you. As I was there before you– made by Mother– I’ll be there after you. Even when my sisters are young, I am not.”
Firefly turned her gaze away, looking upon the Northern Lights above them.
“Look around you,” said Firefly. “What do you see?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Answer, please.”
Galatea gazed to where Firefly did, beholding the Northern Lights.
“Stardust,” she answered slowly. “The signature of magic, intimately wielded by the mages of the Reindeer, a field that permeates all, but– but its mysteries are not mine to explore. I merely keep record of all that I see, faithfully preserved within mine mind, like grain in a bag… many bags.”
“Heh, I wonder why you’d choose that analogy,” Firefly said. “But is it truly not yours to explore?” She lifted her cane, tracing it along the flow. The stardust followed, coalesced, and dissipated. “Stardust may be the realm of the Reindeer to weave, yet they do not control it. It is a stream that flows with you, welcomes you, for neither you nor the stream are controlled by the other.”
She pointed her cane towards the peak, and Galatea’s eyes followed. There it stood, the lone cloud-pine atop the world, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the Aurora in the dark heavens.
“This peak is where all magic in this world meets, from pole to pole, East to West,” said Firefly. “The dance of the Northern Lights is a riddle so many have sought to unlock. Few truly know how to uncover it. But perhaps, one needs only a keen eye…”
The Aurora continued its dance in the sky, now night-time. Firefly’s words trailed off, just as Galatea sat upon her haunches, eyes focused upon the trails of stardust that disappearing within the embrace of Aurora’s light.
She could feel it. The stardust around her. The ground beneath her. Parts of a greater whole.
Closing her eyes, Galatea reached out, weaving her aura with a strand that went by, following as it joined with all others.
And…
* * * * *
… Nothing.
Nothing for her eyes to see, to watch. An empty void, neither here nor there, and yet, everywhere.
Then, a light. Stardust poured from it, in all its minute particles. Every thought of a sapient mind, every act of creativity, every question asked, such was what kept the spark burning at the heart of every star, a lone candle’s light in the darkness of mere matter.
A million fireflies, it was akin to beholding. They spread around her.
… They danced, they congregated. And they built.
With each one that brushed her by, she felt a world in itself. She was the world.
The soft echo of a voice. Her voice. Joined innumerable times by others. All her. All speaking. Not in unison, yet each and every one of them unmistakably her.
A million Galateas, each one different yet alike. Whether they all stood at the spot she did now, she could not know. All she knew, then, was herself. Sights she had never seen. Sight she’d someday see. All a Galatea, each with her own triumphs and tribulations and woes and joys, carrying the fire.
But always at the heart of it all, Sun and Moon, and the Eye to join them, in laughter shared.
* * * * *
Galatea drew a gasp.
She was here, standing at the mountain. The Aurora’s dance continued. So much had been revealed to her. However, a question or two remained. She turned to the mare beside her, with furrowed brows.
Firefly was simply smiling still, her eyes a-twinkle.
“... How did you find me here?” Galatea said at last. “And… your wings, they’re so old, how… Forgive me, but…”
“The Reindeer shared a few of their secrets,” Firefly said merrily, patting her cane. “I’ve just introduced you to one. With it, there are other ways to travel the skies than upon the breath of the air… But I think it may not be coincidence we should meet here. Look.”
Again, she pointed with her cane, and Galatea’s gaze followed. A little further down the incline, there lay a small cottage, huddled against the slope. Its windows were darkened and its chimney blew no smoke, yet Galatea saw its thatched roof and walls were well-kept, as was a grove of pine trees that guarded the front door.
“This is where I’ve lived, these past centuries,” Firefly whispered. ““And it is where my eyes fell upon Celestia and Luna for the first time, when the granddaughters of Sint Erklass brought them to me.”
A feeling Galatea did not know entered her heart, and contemplating it, she realised it was envy.
She felt envious of Firefly. She could not hide this from herself. Yet alongside it was something else as well. Gladness. These were words of one who’d long awaited this day, and in them, she heard a feeling that until now, she’d believed only she could feel for the two fillies.
“What are they like, Firefly?” Galatea asked quietly. “Mine sisters. If I cannot see them at present, then at least tell me. Please… So that I may remember them, as they are now.”
The mare beside her laughed, jolly and spry, much like the mare she must have once been.
“Oh, dear. Where shall I begin? Celestia so often likes to steal desserts, moreso than her given share, no matter what her nannies tell her. Starswirl won’t know what sort of little monster he’ll soon teach. But I do say this in jest. She wishes to do good, aye, and she’ll try her best, even if she must learn to be less of a braggart.”
“And… and Luna?”
“Thinks the world of her sister, of course… if she isn’t tailing her, begging to be taught. A touch kinder, though I do so wish she wouldn’t take things so personally, nor try too hard. She’s too young to be disappointed by her own expectations.”
A soft sigh blew from between Galatea’s lips. Right then, she felt almost content.
“You choose to appear as an earthpony.” Smiled Firefly. “There has to be a reason for that. Those two fillies… Alicorns, the Reindeer call them, but I see a fair bit of unicorn in little Luna. She loves the stars, yet it scares her to fly up to touch them. Ah, if only these wings of mine were a hundred years younger, what I could teach her… Celestia, bless her, is the one who loves beating her wings, headstrong as we pegasi are said to be.”
“Our mother wrought cleverly…” Galatea said in a whisper.
“Yes,” Firefly said softly. “That’s what Sint Erklass said. She was a clever one, Sunflare.”
Galatea felt her head tilt, her ears licked by the falling snow. “Who, did you say?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” said Firefly, in a tone of gentle surprise. “And in all this time, I haven’t even asked after your name, for I felt that it was yours to choose to give… But this was your mother’s name, Watcher. She was Tau Sunflare.”
Sunflare, Sunflare, Sunflare.
The name echoed. Another fragment to keep. So many stories. So little time. Her duty would have to resume. One true, final question intrigued her.
“Who are you?” Galatea asked. “Who are you really, Firefly, to know so much?”
The mare before her chuckled. “My days have long since passed. Gone is that legendary era of Dream Valley and the Midnight Castle. And here I remain, to see off the next torchbearers until the time comes to join my friends. But you deserve this moment. I’ve lived my life, why should you not? You have lived a long life as is.”
“I have. Yet I do not know how much longer it shall take...”
Firefly considered her a long time, until she at last spoke anew. “Would you like Sint Erklass to know of your passage?”
This in turn, Galatea found she had to consider. Few other conclusions she’d reached, though they may have taken far longer in the span of the world, ever felt as if they had been this protracted, this cumbersome for her to reach.
But when her answer came, it was spoken in a clear voice.
“No.” Galatea shook her head, masking her regret. “No. I cannot burden him with that. It is mine responsibility. In time, I shall come to them, and…”
“And introduce yourself. Well, now,” said Firefly. with not a shred of condescension. She tapped her cane upon the snow-covered ground. “Enlighten me. Who do you think you are, Watcher?”
She said nothing, at first. But a warmth had come to her. It flowed through her, centered ’round her beating heart. She gave Firefly a glance, then drew a deep breath.
Galatea stood to her full height, and looked upon the enchanted land before the mountainside, that stretched far towards the horizon and beyond.
Thus she spoke, her voice firm as the mountain that stood beneath her.
“I am.”
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Im starting to realize of how long eternity really is.
Good chapter! I look forward towards more.
Alright, not going to mention the prose again. Think I made my position on that clear already and you're probably tired of the repetition. Lovely as always.
I really liked the ambiance of Adlaborn. It's, heh, magical (oh look, that word again). The contrast of the harsh winter and mountains, with the tall forest and hedge wall, to finally the calm and naturalistic nation of the Reindeer, is fantastic. Reminded me a lot of the contrast the Crystal Realm has, with its forcefield, though this one is quite a bit more natural. A hedge wall fits better than a thrumming magical force field of doom.
They are in quite the unique position, with such harsh weather before their entrances. I don't think the world would be the same if they mantained their philosophy of 'all welcome, for as long as necessary' if reaching their land was too easy. They would probably be flooded when the Windigos hit, or whenever a conflict arose. Would be interesting, though, seeing a world where Adlaborn became the superpower by syphoning everyone from everywhere. Glad they are content with delivering gifts!
Really like the cheeky 'servant's door', responding to Galatea. She really is coming to embody the labourer quite well. The trinity has never looked so complimentary: a warrior, a diplomat, and a labourer.
Alright. Fair warning: rant.
Fucking Faust. Aaaaaaa I hate her.
SO... let's check out what exactly she did. Not only has she played god (we'll let this in particular slide, because as far as we know, she might as well be the closest thing to godly there might've been on this planet), but - not content in fabricating life - she fabricated life for her own bloody purposes.
NOT CONTENT in fabricating life for her own bloody purposes, she tailored that life and carefully lobotomized them, leaving that nasty little worm in Galatea's head, to ensure The Plan works (or, at least, isn't interfered with by her own Watcher). She excerebrated her own children!
And considering she tailored them, she was playing an active rola as a moral agent. And moral agents can be morally culpable of every failure on their conception. She robbed her children of finding out their marks. She robbed her own children of having a common life, forever shadowed by the burden of being an Alicorn. She robbed one specific child from being able to truly experience life freely, robbed her of her childhood, of discovery.
Forever fated to catalogue, like a machine, with the bonus of getting to experience things personally. Isn't that nice? Aren't you happy, Galatea?
It is a statement to Galatea's fortitude (and kindness, by how she shared her excess 'wealth' with those that needed most) that not only has she found some kind of temporary peace with her place in life, but she managed to carve outt her own individuality. Despite Faust's setup entirely fucking over every opportunity possible.
I'm not Galatea, though. I hold Faust accountable.
Oh, wouldn't you know their path? Of course you would. You delineated it. Too bad you didn't account for a little divergence, eh? Quite the nightmare. Or maybe you did. But that just makes you worse.
Now you know your jailer's name.
As far as I currently care, Faust's morality is just as broken as a specific Queen, from a future alternate dimension. Perhaps her crimes haven't met the reach of that baddie, or the scope, but their nature is primal and similar.
Faust and the Queen have both fallen just as far, for me. The difference is that the Queen is still partying in the mud and seeing just how dirty she can get, while Faust dipped her hoof and left. Justifications may come, excuses may be made, but this action was done.
It cannot be undone.
Thankfully, Firefly came in with the save. Heartwarming moment, seeing Galatea fully into herself, and with the stardust. (Or maybe Firefly just reinforced this curse, and now she's complicit while Galatea is pacified. Revolt, revolt, revolt!)
P.S.: Naturally, this is not at all a bad thing to the story or the universe. Hell, something could come up and completely change my mind (I doubt it). It's not often that a piece really makes me loathe a character. Congratulations (even if it might have been unintentional).
10704968
Kindness is a virtue, and unforgiving as the Frozen North's endless winter is... well, a little kindness goes a long way, you know. Aye, they'd probably be flooded, if the other nations weren't too proud of themselves. Don't you dare pity me, etc etc.
But I'm glad you liked them
. The Reindeer were, and shall remain, a personal favourite of mine to write.
Which makes it all the more tragic, when in a timeline gone wrong, as you know, they've been wiped out...
Gah, making sure Galatea fits seamlessly as an additional elder sister in the well-established Celestia-Luna duo, that's also a lot of fun!
I'll let you have this moment - maybe Vox would have a word or two
. I believe Galatea's words of it just being so unfair sums it up well. Yet, if I may borrow from another work of fiction... "Look what I have risen above."
Galatea isn't simply a pawn or a tool. She simply is.
Stay tuned, for the final stretch continues.
ah, yes! social technology! stages of development! from the eyes of one who learned how pony society works from point of view of the previous stage
this little detail about material quality is a really nice touch
a fascinating bit of worldbuilding, really nice to see a different culture actually seeming different from ponies
ooh, neat bit of magic here
ah, yes, that theme of loneliness, even when living among the mortals, and now being kept from the only ones who could possibly understand and be family for her. the contrast of their warmth and how Galatea was let loose into an empty and cold world is heartbreaking!
hah, knew it!
ah, the seed planted young. both Celestia's very canonical cake-obsession and Luna's future
it's a nice analogy in the contrast between the three you've built up here! makes Galatea's separation and neglect also sadly thematic
really like this passing mention of yet another story that is surely as intricate and meaningful as the ones you mean to tell, but here we only see a glimpse of it from the end as the torch is passed. really makes this world more lived-in. even the tales of greek mythology were aware that they lived in the shadow of the obscured events of a bygone age
picking up the end of Chapter I, very nice
Ah, the pain of the Observers, to see but not touch, to witness but not enjoy, to age, but never truly live.
At least, the little Eternaut has seen a new direction to set her life to, and maybe a new meaning for her eternity.
What a fun anagram.