Chapter 1 - The Scroll that Leapt through Time
Before I tell you too much of this tale, it is worth noting that to this very day, many details of these occurrences are unknown to me. This is not my story, but the story of a much greater sequence of inevitable events, unfolding without my permission and, at times, without my knowledge.
Another thing worth noting: I have no means by which to prove that any of this transpired. The very nature of these happenings makes doing so impossible. There is no empirical evidence which suggests the story I tell you is true, nor any to suggest that I am lying. My testimony is the one and only remnant of these events.
With that out of the way, I think it best if I start from... let me see... May thirteenth, I believe, would be a good starting point. The year was one thousand three of the Celestial Calendar. Yes, that sounds about right... you had just been crowned a princess a month or two prior, and were still adjusting to your new life of royalty. I too was as busy as ever, with my duties as your assistant increasing in equal proportion to your duties as a princess.
But... but I'm not a princess... I never was...
Already, you see my plight. This is such a difficult story to tell. Perhaps, in time, you will understand...
Anyhow... we were in the basement that day, sorting and purging your workspace to make it a more fit place for work, since - with your scholarship ended - you needed to pursue research and study as a full-time career. Not that you needed any prompting to do so.
It was the middle of the night. You were standing over a workbench, testing a box of old electrical components to see which ones worked and which ones were dead. On the opposite end of the room, I was going through old cardboard boxes, labeling them by their contents. About halfway through the collection, I found a box containing a rather odd mix of items.
"Hey, Twilight," I called out to you, "how should I label this one?"
"What's inside?" you responded, not looking away from your workbench.
"Awh, it's just an old record player, a frying pan, and a notebook. Plus a few cords."
"...Oh!" there was hesitation in your voice as you responded, "Set that one aside. I need to dispose of that properly."
"Do what now?"
"Just let me deal with that box. Set it on the table and put it out of your mind."
I tried to do as I was told. Certainly, I placed it upon the table as instructed. Putting it out of my mind, however, is easier said than done for a curious young dragon. The rest of the night, as I sifted through boxes full of yellowed research notes and busted electronics, my mind continued to drift back to the record player, the frying pan, the cords, and the notebook. What was so unique about them that they couldn't be disposed of like the rest of the old junk? At the time, they struck me as ordinary household items. And the notebook... you never threw away notes. I think that, out of everything, was what nagged at me the most.
The nagging sensation continued to bother me long after we gave up for the night, and into the wee hours of the morning. I soon fell asleep, but woke up well before dawn. My eyes were crusted over and felt as though someone was inside my skull trying to push them out with a blunt object. Still gripped by the haze of sleep, I walked downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
When finally you awoke and joined me, I so desperately wanted to pursue the question: what was the significance of those seemingly arbitrary objects? But recalling your instructions, I stayed my tongue as best I could, responding with a faint nothing or nevermind when you would ask me what I was on my mind.
That afternoon, you had errands to run. In the meantime, I was instructed to get a head start on indexing your library. The task was tedious and time-consuming, and naturally I was less than eager to work on it. So, as would be expected from a young dragon, I wasted no time jumping onto the nearest distraction while I had the library to myself: that box full of household objects called out to me. With you out and about I could go back and look at it properly. My intention was not malicious, mind you. It was simply an innocent curiosity which I could never pursue with the presence of supervision. Nothing more.
I entered the basement cautiously, though I knew no one was home. Owlowiscious was accounted for as well - assisting Rainbow Dash in flight training for the day. The silence was so tangible, it was almost a presence unto itself. Over to the table at the center I tiptoed, and carefully opened the box.
There, just where I had left them, were the strange yet familiar objects. The frying pan. The record player. The cords. The notebook.
Naturally, I assumed your notes would hold the simplest and quickest answers to my questions. I pulled the volume from the box and opened it to a random page near the center. Intense and intricate formulas - which would not make sense to me until much later - lined page after page in the note, with only small spaces left for little tidbits, things like 'do not use' or 'see page 28'.
'Page 28'... this exact page reference seemed to be showing up in many of the tidbits as I flipped through the journal, most of the time in conjunction with a statement or note which was particularly complex or confusing. The natural conjecture, of course, was that page twenty-eight might hold some clues as to what this thing was, what it did, and why it was so important.
I was not disappointed.
28: How to operate The Scroll that Leapt through Time (name subject to change)
This device can only be operated with Spike's help. As a temporal engine, some amount of magic is required to use it. However, any relatively populated area will have enough airborne magical flux to power it. Of course, this means that in order to use it safely, you must operate it in an isolated environment (the basement of Golden Oaks Library is currently the most ideal location).
The operation is simple. Affix the clamp ends of both cables to opposite edges of frying pan. Send one cable to the record player's power input, and send the other to the record player's audio output. At this point, the device is ready to use. Set the record player's rotations per minute to the number of hours back in time you want to send your message. Place the scroll you want to send back in time into the frying pan. Finally, Spike must use his dragon mail ability (referred to as d-mail throughout this journal) to heat the pan, with the intention of sending the letter to the recipient. The letter should disappear instantly as it does when d-mail is used normally.
Feeling dizziness is a natural indicator that the d-mail has successfully reached the past (switching world lines causes nausea), although its effectiveness all depends on your factorial calculation on the matter. The correct recipient, the correct time, and the correct message are all vital for achieving your desired result.
A full explanation of world lines can be found on page 137.
I didn't care to read any further just yet on the topic. I'd read all that my brain could handle at the time. The conjecture to be drawn, however, was quite obvious: you had found a way to make Starswirl's time spell work repetitively. But it still didn't answer why you wanted to get rid of this device.
Regardless, my first instinct was to test the machine. If it didn't work, that would explain quite clearly why you wanted to be rid of it, and I could move past the matter. The first idea that came to mind was a rather childish and simple thing to test on, but looking back, it was probably for the best. I quickly scrawled out a letter, placed it in the frying pan, and breathed a touch of fire underneath. The letter disappeared, just as the journal had said, and shortly thereafter the nausea hit. Colors swarmed my eyes, drowning my vision for a moment and causing my body to go tense. But as quickly as it had come, it passed, and in the same instant there was a knock at the front door.
Taking the stairs three at a time I dashed to the main level and flung open the front door.
There, as expected, was the pizza delivery colt, holding the scroll I had just sent, and a boxed pizza which I doubt they would have kept stocked pre-made.
"Gem Lover's Pizza for Spike?" he confirmed. I nodded vigorously, dropped the total cost into his coin pouch, and grabbed the pizza. Slamming the door behind me, I turned back into the house and looked down at the masterpiece. Quartz, jade and amethyst, with powdered jasper for a bit of kick, all on a traditional hoof-tossed crust. It was a magnificent looking pizza, and more importantly, it left no room for doubt. This pizza couldn't have taken any less than thirty minutes to make, yet it arrived almost instantly after I sent the letter.
Your device worked flawlessly, and I couldn't wait to try it again.