Be it due to madness, or sickness, or some sort of foul malady in the air, Twilight Sparkle appeared on my doorstep with a strangeness in her eyes and a mumbling under her voice, like a drunkard sent home for the night. I was awoken by a great hammering upon the door of my home, a cacophony that would have woken the neighbours had I not answered her call with haste.
She was dressed all in black, her tiara, her status, hidden away by the hood of a cloak, and came without guard – something which took me by surprise, for it was rare these days that one would see her without accompaniment, especially without Rainbow by her side. There was a peculiarity about her, and she gave off a tone, or quality, that I had never felt in all these years since we first met. But it was hard to place, exactly, what the trouble was, for although her features seemed to be as calm and serene as a pond, there was a strange depth behind her eyes. And as our gazes met, I thought I saw something there, the sort of look that one gets during a sudden revelation, or perhaps the glint of something else entirely.
But I recognized her immediately, despite not having seen her for the past year or so, and behind the shadows that drew in from the streets and the droplets of liquid that flaked off her cloak, there were her familiar eyes, familiar smile, familiar heart, all caught up in the threads of nervous anxiety.
I invited her in, as any lonely, wistful pony would, out of the black-streaked skies of Barnsend, into the humble Terrace that I called home, into a place where I sat alone through the week with my thoughts and my designs and my writing and little else. She accepted far too eagerly, as if the invitation to someplace potentially familiar were the only thing that would banish the chill around her ankles and the shadows that played on her cloak.
As soon as the door shut, the blues and blacks of the night were cast away, and the orange glows of the fireplace took over, nary a single shadow left to mar the walls of my living room.
I spent more than a moment watching her as I prepared the tea over the fire. It had been a while since I moved here from my Canterlot manor, and longer still since I had any company, let alone hers. The sight of the Princess reduced into such a quivering, shaking form brought back visions of the days long since past, when we were all still a little bit scared, when we were all still a little bit foolish.
I must admit, at that point, to feeling slight trepidation myself — awaiting the moment when she would mention the events of that night (see: #293), but to my great relief (or perhaps not) she merely smiled weakly and informed me that it was great to see me again.
My first question was, of course, how it was that she was able to find me. But of course, a princess has her ways, and no small piece of knowledge would be beyond her glean. She made it frank that she knew exactly what happened when I removed myself from the public eye, and how my sister is now currently running the business under my name. She explained that she knew me too well — and she does — and that she had me followed here, to this home, and observed to a point until she was happy that I was safe.
I avoided the anger, this time. A year was time enough for me to understand that some ponies were never able to escape their nature, and at this point, we had drifted far enough that I could interpret her actions in a less personal manner.
She also decided to divulge the fate of our other friends — here a proper businesswoman, there a relief worker, and so on, all happy, all with family, and all moving on past the burdens we once carried.
I myself do not mind being alone, of course, as it was a matter of choice, and the air here does me quite well, in this small town by the sea.
It was unfortunate that our knowledge of the other did not extend both ways. For the past year I had not been keeping up with the trials and tribulations of the princess Twilight, perhaps due to my wish to separate myself from the weight of the modern world. But despite it all, it was nice to see her again, an old friend, a dear friend, and a moment came over me where I perhaps felt the need to approach the subject myself. And before I could even voice my regret, Twilight, as intelligent and perceptive as she always was, told me not to worry.
Even through her own tired eyes and quaking heart, she deemed it necessary to show concern for those around her. And for the reason of her arrival tonight, she had hoped that I would be able to return that concern, and of course, I could not refuse, for I have never been able to.
Twilight had promised to explain everything in the morning, and to her word, she did. Over a great breakfast of hashed potatoes and eggs benedict over cracked rye, she took her time to introduce to me the situation that had brought her to Barnsend.
She produced a small item from her bag and placed it upon the table. It was a smallish black object, polished like marble, with veins of red running down its side. It was oddly angular, such like one might see in twisted metal, but yet had a smoothness to it. It is an item that I have great difficulty in describing more than this, as there is nothing much else that I have seen that I could compare it to.
She had brought it here hoping to find out more about it.
Indeed, her quest here was one of work, as I was not surprised to learn. But she was doing this by herself, rather than on any official business, which thusly explained why she lacked guardianship. She had given Rainbow Dash the week off, she told me, so that it would not interfere with that nasty little thing named Internal Politics.
I questioned her approach, naturally, asking why she had to act in such a clandestine manner, and the reason was far less titillating than my mind had conjured up. There were no tales of secrets or espionage or strange oddness about. It was simple. It was something that Twilight herself had found out about through her own research in her spare time, and it had nothing to do with the country nor country affairs. Thus, as a matter of course, she could not use country resources to manage it.
As fodder for my next book, it was severely lacking, and I chastised Twilight for it in good manner, to keep about our joyful banter.
She accepted it with all due spirit, and told me that she had indeed read my first book. She told me she quite enjoyed it, but she was surprised that I had not written a love story as the prime focus of my new venture. I explained, as is the truth, that interpersonal drama was the last thing I wished to write about, and she seemed to understand.
She also said that my pen name was not very good, and everyone else save for Rainbow, bless her heart, had guessed it was me the moment the book came out on shelves. While I myself thought the moniker of ‘Ersatz’ was quite clever, she mentioned that only I would directly reference myself — a ‘fake gem’ — in my own pen name.
I suppose this is what I get for asking her of her opinion. Twilight was always rather akin to telling the blunt, scoring truth.
But alas, it is quite too late now, and my next work will have to be under the same name. She did quickly assure me that no one else knew, however, since it was really just her knowledge of my circumstance that would have led her to come to this conclusion so quickly.
Still, I cannot say that this did not leave me a little disheartened. I still question the reason why, however. It is perhaps for its own sake do such feelings come.
As breakfast wore on, we returned once again to the topic upon the table. Twilight was here to observe and question about the object, which was giving off a very particular sort of magic, as she explained. In her testings, she had found that this item was very old, and was resonating with certain frequencies, in her words, but was currently benign.
Asking what the object did, precisely, prompted Twilight to tell me to hold the item up to my ear.
Now that I think on it, the item held such a strange curiosity that I can’t quite put it into proper words, certainly more than I had originally given it credit for. As chagrin as I am to stoop to base generalities, I simply must dub the object as such — the object — as it still carries this odd sense of indescribability about it. Without knowing more, there is simply nothing else that I can refer to it by, and I shall be relying on Twilight to unveil this mystery in the days to come, with any hope.
But ah, what indeed is it?
Upon my ear it let out a faint hissing from within, something like a white noise, like a radio tuning into static. But it moved more than mere static, coming and going in swishes and waves.
To me, it reminded me of the calming, ever-present and wistful noise of rain.
The rain that fell — that mars certain fateful days — I can still hear it now, somewhere in the back of my head, when I think longingly about times that have past.
It is quite odd that this object of hers would evoke such a response, but as I picture it in my mind’s eye, even while I write, it refuses to leave.
Twilight explained that the sound was, in fact, the sound of waves, which perhaps was the truth after all, and she told me that this was what led her here to this town in the first place. It was likely a clue, she stated. A lead. And it led her right to the little seaside town of Barnsend.
And while I found the deduction rather lacking, I still had to place my trust in Twilight. She certainly would know what she was doing, and she did so with such burning fervour.
‘I must find it,’ Twilight declared to me, which I mark here only due to the utter force of determination that she sent with her words.
And with a smile, she left for the day, about to do her workings.
But in her haste, I had completely forgotten to question her miraculous recovery from her state of last night. Perhaps all she needed was a little rest, but I neglected to question what was causing such fatigue in the first place. I have always known her to overwork, and in that, I believe it to be nothing more than a little bit of her usual stressings.
I have also forgotten to ask her where she found the object. But I shall upon her return.
For the rest of the day I stayed at home, working on my second novel. Work progresses smoothly, and whilst writing I even was met with a rather impromptu shower from outside as the sound of rain came falling down. I quite enjoy writing in the rain, as it is a noise of great comfort, but to my surprise as I looked to shut my window, the skies were clear and the ground dry.
Of course, there was no noise of rain or anything of the sort, but sometimes when you long for something enough, a whisper of a phantom can come to you. It has been a while since it last rained. My poor flowers are wilting.
However, it was probably for the best, since the rain would have hindered Twilight’s investigations as well. Being a small town, shelter is few and far between, and an umbrella is the best friend of the unwary pony around these parts. I shall have to lend Twilight one tomorrow, I do feel, just in case. It might pour any day, now!
But as good fortune favoured, Twilight returned home today dry as a bone, and as tired as she was yesterday. Once again, she had pushed herself too far, and she appeared knocking on my door in quite the state!
I did give her a slight chiding, which she took on the chin, and agreed that perhaps she should have stopped for lunch and dinner. Both meals had she not taken! It was shocking to hear. When we were but a little younger, I would catch her doing this perhaps once or twice, but as she was now, she couldn’t afford to be this reckless.
I quickly rushed to the kitchen to fix us some middlings for nourishment, while she regaled me with her adventures of the day.
She delivered upon me a book that she had found in the local library, one of myths, tales and other such superstitious nonsense. It was a book bound in old string and yellowed glue that flaked off on my precious dining table, and you can be sure I cleaned all that up in a hurry!
But as old things were, this one was quite presentable otherwise.
For the rest of the day, Twilight had spoken to a local historian, which I did not even know we had here, and spent a great deal of time walking the length of the town, trying to find something, but failing, in her own words.
What it was she was attempting to find led to a heftier sprinkle of book dandruff upon my table as she pushed me to a page within the old folklore book.
My description here does no justice to the actual text, but I was left with an odd chill as I finished reading the description, which was full of archaic tongue and terms from parallel minds with parallel understandings.
From the few things that I could, or would, piece together, the text told of a gathering that existed within Barnsend unspecified hundreds of years ago, a clandestine organization that went by the name ‘The Watchers of the Stars’. I barely had the wherewithal to process their purpose, for as it was written, it read as though they were intentionally hiding the meaning behind their activities, merely stating in broad strokes how they wished to ‘observe the truth’ and ‘wait on the path’. There were other mentions of nurturing their ilk, and hiding their sires within reflection and
It is to be certain — I will never attempt my hoof at writing horror, for my constitution will simply not allow it!
Even such things as this, an old story from a day gone by, caused me such anxiety that Twilight had to sit me down and fetch me my own tea in my own home!
After we both had time to calm down and had our fill of tidings, we finished speaking about the subject; I cannot admit to not being a curious mind, something which has frequently got me into trouble in the past.
As always, my questions revealed more truths, for it is in my nature to poke and prod at holes.
As it turns out, this historian, that Twilight so tactfully described, was actually Old Stallion Fenseed from up the hill, our current oldest resident. He and I have a sort of shared understanding, as it were. I have written about him in the past (see: #84, #113) but I shall recollect that we both do not leave our houses much unless necessary, although of the two of us, he is more frequently met with disdain in the town square.
It is a shame, however, for an old man to be treated as such, for do we not all one day grow old and rely on the kindness of others? Of course, he is, as Twilight complained, also a rather unpleasant sort to deal with, due to his excitable temperament, but as I have noted before, I feel a kinship with him for the both of us being odd hermits in some way or another.
Twilight said, as I had expected, that Old Stallion Fenseed did give Twilight nothing more but cryptics and wordplay, and grew agitated whence Twilight produced the item for him to observe. He bade her leave his home that instant, Twilight bemusedly explained, stating he had important work to do at that moment, but gave promise that he would meet her once more.
From there, Twilight neglected to provide details herself, for it was late, and she was tired, but summarized the rest of her experience by saying that she had been led to find the book that was now sitting upon my tabletop.
I asked her then, if she had found what she had been seeking. But the answer was a very wistful ‘no’. Although, she clarified, it was a step in the right direction. What she sought was something beyond mere tales of legend. What she had to find was something far more tangible, but still, she had no idea what form it would take.
Again, she asserted that she would definitely know once she found it. The object, she said, would tell her, as magic usually did. But she gained, today, a few leads and a few clues to where she might search next. The sound of waves, was the last thought she muttered on before giving off a great yawn.
The hours stretched long, and we both decided to retire to our beds, again, with her proclamation that the object must be found.
It only comes to me now that I have once again forgotten to ask her how the object came into her possession. Such a mind, I have!
It is late evening, and Twilight has not returned yet. She left long before I awoke this morning, and I opened the door to my guest room to find her bed neatly made without a pony in it. I had spent the day writing a few more pages to my novel, and I have reached the point where our lead character has finally come to the secret city. Of course, I shan’t say more!
I spent a few good minutes today sitting in the guest room, thinking about Twilight. I must admit, emotions must be kept tightly behind flood gates. All it takes is one crack for things to start spilling out, and the clean up is excessively messy.
Perhaps, things could have gone another way if either of us were more patient. Perhaps it was me, perhaps it was her. Perhaps it was circumstance, as others had always said. It was too difficult. There were many complications. Such is life, and such is circumstances. It was always the story of the prince and the pauper, not the prince with him.
I closed my eyes and remembered certain days, and certain things, and as I kept them tightly shut, the sound of rain once again filled my head.
It was raining, that day.
My memories certainly can be very strong, sometimes, to cause such striking perceptions.
But that is what you get when you ask for nothing.
It appears Twilight returned last night while I was asleep. I found her at my table in the morning, clutching an empty mug. She had a far-away look in her eyes, and only when I came in did she snap to and realise she had no coffee — something that I was glad to rectify.
The first thing she said to me was:
‘I found it.’
She asked for a map, upon which she pointed out the area of the town known as Seal Bay, which was a circular area enclosed along the shore. I know not the history of the town, but I assumed it was known as such due to there being a multitude of seals in the area.
I was quite mistaken.
Its true name, as Twilight had found out, was Sidereal Bay, a word that had crumbled over time to become something quite easier to pronounce and understand. As it was, ‘Sidereal’ referred to the stars, and the connection was quite strong. The Watchers of the Stars, as she recalled, must have watched the stars, and the sounds of water coming from the stone must be indication of the area being to do with water.
And in fact, upon going there, something amazing happened, as she put.
She once again withdrew the object from her bag and told me to listen to it again.
It no further than grazed my ear did I hear the same noise once more, albeit a dozen-fold louder and stronger. But it sounded not to me like waves crashing upon the shore. It was more like a heavy, torrential rain that came crashing down upon the lands, swallowing up everything in black turgid floods.
Yes, perhaps this is a slight exaggeration, but Twilight, in her fervent zeal, repeated once again that she had found what she was looking for, and I can not but help carry some of that excitement.
I congratulated her.
She asked me out to join her for lunch outside.
And here I am now, writing about it, under the guise of needing to put my face on!
My hoof is quite unsteady, as you can probably notice.
I would love to shake it out of my head, but I can not.
We spent the day yesterday simply talking, and such a time it was. I reached home in such a state that I spent the day in bed staring up at the ceiling, like I was sixteen again. I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but I had such a lovely dream about rain and flowers and the scent of Contessa Grey tea.
It felt warm, and comfortable, like home usually does, like a great big bowl of soup cooked by mother. It was inviting, and loving, and it felt like a place that one would belong.
When I woke up early this morning, I found Twilight deeply asleep in her own bed, and I did not disturb her.
Twilight woke up today in a rather upsetting state. Far be it for me to say so, but I feel that she is pressing too hard.
She stated that she only came back in the morning, at about 5 AM, due to her watching Seal Bay for the entirety of the night. She stood there, she told me, watching and waiting for something to happen. She held the object out to me, saying that all the while, the object was crying louder, in her words, and that she had to be patient.
I must say, I sometimes feel that her need to discover and find out things is rather aggravating!
I was looking forward to another day today with her, like we had yesterday, but in her state as it is now, there is nothing to look forward to but a day of slurred speech and half-closed eyes.
I have to be honest! I am quite annoyed! And the worst of it is that she said that she needed to go back out again tonight! Of course, I charged her with questions. I asked her as direct a question as they came — what for?
And she told me, snapped at me, and said that I would not understand.
Twilight woke me up in the middle of the night, rushing back and shrieking as if a banshee had taken possession of her faculties. Her eyes were shot, red, and shaking in their sockets, like a rattling toy, and she kept on going on about how she saw it.
‘It?’ I asked, or perhaps, a better word would be ‘tried’, as my attempts to garner response were met with incessant franticism.
In the middle, she said, was where she saw it. The Watchers were right, she claimed, and the object, that she waved about but then suddenly stopped, as if it were a child, was in fact, the key.
She now knew what she was dealing with, and she now felt what this was.
It was a remarkable discovery, she claimed, one that would bring forth the answer to many questions.
She commanded me propose a question, which was the moment that she fell back to recognizing my presence.
I met her with a shake of my head, not as a denial, but due to the simple fact that I had no fathomable idea what she was speaking about.
She pressed on, continuously asking me to state my questions which will be answered truthfully.
I simply asked her what was wrong with her and if she required a doctor.
She shut her eyes on me, breathing out heavily, daring to show me exasperation, and told me that once again, I did not understand.
But is that not the truth? There is nothing to understand, and nothing that she put into context!
I am going back to sleep, but as soon as I awake, I am dragging her to the local physician, and we shall have her head set straight.
She left again. I can not believe it. It is mid-day, and I am certain she didn’t get much rest. You could see her exhaustion etched on her face like a sculptor chisels lines upon marble. Where would she go?
I am ashamed to admit that I raised my voice at her, and showed her the impatience and disdain that had been building up for the past day.
She did not react to a thing I said, merely throwing a bunch of scraps of paper upon my counter, and rushing off to her bedroom for goodness-knows-what, brushing past me and only affording me one single glance!
Just one!
Her face was haggard, and her mane fell over in clumps. That look in her eyes was burning brighter than ever before, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d say she were touched with insanity. All attempts at getting her to respond to me have been met with failure, but peering through the curtains from the outside has shown me exactly what she has been doing.
She has been writing or drawing something. I cannot tell what. There are papers strewn all over the room now, in a circular fashion, all surrounding that object which she placed in the center of the floor. She is working with a fever, completely drawn in by her task, even though I, nor perhaps even she, knows what she is doing.
I have no idea what she is up to, but I fear I might need to send a letter to Princess Celestia about this.
I took a closer look at the papers that she brought back. One of it is a map of two hundred years ago, and it shows the coastline. It appears that Seal Bay was far smaller back then than it is now. Erosion, perhaps, or some other thing. I do not know how things like this work. But it seems the lands have shifted.
It is merely due to a large ‘X’ that Twilight has penned upon the map that I even bothered to look. It seems to be a spot right in the middle of the bay area, a place that is now submerged under water.
It appears that whatever she found is currently right in the middle of the waters.
The other pages are written in a language completely unrecognizable to me, and it is only an assumption that it is a language in the first place. They look more like shapes drawn by bored children, but repetition of certain symbols here and there lend credence to the idea that perhaps it is some kind of communication.
I do believe, at this point, it would be prudent to take some sort of action. I shall have to consider what.
It has been a tiring past few days, due to many incidents, and my spirit has been shifted in so many ways, and now I find that I have to backpedal a little.
I am not the most patient of ponies, and I am not the most understanding — this I have come to know of myself over the past year of living alone and thinking on things.
This morning, Twilight came to me, sheepish, scared, worried, timid.
She apologized for her actions last night, and told me that something had just came across her, and she was enraptured in the possibility of finding out a new truth.
She then took the time to explain in detail why this means so much to her — it was a primeval magic, she said, something that existed since the creation of the entire world. Its purpose is a mystery, and very few veins have ever been found. She mentioned that the birth of some of our adversaries were merely a splinter of what primeval magic could do, and that perhaps she was a bit too excited about it.
But the excitement is gone, she said. Just gone, and further prodding was met with casual brush-offs and an unsatisfying lack of explanation. However, she seemed better. No longer did her eyes show signs of madness, as I would describe, and she spoke in a calm, collected manner.
I told her my frank thoughts.
She agreed, and said that she would leave in the morning to call for an official study, since this now fell under her official jurisdiction.
In return, she requested to leave the object with me until her return, and she packed up her things to be on her way.
She apologized profusely for her behaviour after all this time, and told me how unprofessional she had been acting. She told me to leave everything as it was, and to wait for her to come back. She said she could not take the object with her. It was essential that it remain here in my care.
I simply shook my head. Whatever it meant at the time, I wasn’t sure, but it seemed as though Twilight interpreted it in a way she was happy with.
With a final whisper of regret, she left.
I have decided to put the object above my writing desk, and even now, I can gaze up at it to look upon its wrinkled surface. I don’t know why Twilight expected me to clean up after her, but I could not leave the guest room in such a state.
All this trouble due to a small item like that!
At least life will return to some semblance of normalcy come tomorrow. For today, I am taking the day off, as they say, and I shall take a trip to the nearby city because this shoddy one does not have a spa.
Yesterday, upon my return to the town, I found my home had been broken into. To find that my key was no longer required to gain entry into my house was something both shocking and terrifying to me to the point where I could not even keep grasp on the handle straight, and I had difficulty in opening the door.
I can barely believe it, but I understand the culprit behind the act to be none other than Twilight Sparkle.
After careful consideration for the day, this was the only determination that I could come to. Nothing was stolen, or upset, or upturned, except for the object. Only the object was missing, and surely, only Twilight Sparkle knew of its existence?
This is so unlike her, and I cannot tell what I am more upset over, the break-in itself or the fact that it was her who did it!
Yesterday was a circus trying to sort things out. When reporting the crime, the local constabulary told me that they could not find something that I could not describe, but to describe the object is a challenge all unto itself! The thing is barely describable! I do not know what it is, what it does, and my attempt at even sketching it for them from memory produced a horrid mess upon the paper, an insult to the artist that I once was.
And how could I even explain that Princess Twilight was the one who broke into my home to steal this indescribable thing? The thought alone would put them to laughing me out of the station!
But I know that it is her. Who else would it be? A hasty note was also left upon my writing desk, scribbled across the latest page of my novel! Can you believe the nerve of it all?
Right in the middle of the page, scrawled in big, thick lettering, were the words:
I GO NOW TO WATCH THE STARS
And nothing more.
I could not show the constables the note. It would have put me in a place that I would not be able to explain myself out of.
Try as I might, I do not understand the message, although it is clear it has something to do with everything that’s been going on, and I fear that Twilight may have decided to return to this foolish quest of hers.
I should have done this that day, but I am now going to have to write a letter to Princess Celestia telling her of the entire situation.
How has it become that I now feel uncomfortable and foreign in my own home?
I sit now at my dining table to write this, for it is the only spot which allows me to watch the room as I do so. The door no longer locks, and at night, the silence becomes unbearably loud.
There are no sounds at all. Not even the crickets chirp tonight.
I have been set on edge by the words of the old stallion. I fear that a strange sense of paranoia has gripped me, and the dull greys of the shadows dance wherever I turn my head. Things feel ‘off’, for lack of a better word, as if the world were tilted slightly on its side.
There is an emptiness in my ears that I long to fill, and I find myself wishing that the rains would come.
A few moments ago, I had returned from visiting Old Stallion Fenwick, a pony whom, in Twilight’s testimony, recognized and knew of the object. Upon showing up at his house, he started yelling at me, accosting me with vile terms and words that do not bear the need to be repeated, and when I asked if I had done anything to upset him, he merely responded:
‘Do you hear it?’
I asked him what it was I was supposed to be hearing.
‘She heard it,’ he said. ‘She did.’
And with a great shake of his head, the old stallion started to speak, and on and on he went about how Twilight should have never meddled, and how Twilight brought it back, and how the truth would come to take us away.
There was only one thing he said that brought me closer to what I had suspected, and that was this:
Twilight was poisoned, he said, by the truth, ever since she started listening.
At this point, he broke down into incoherency, babbling as he cried and muttered over a shortness of breath, as he started pacing the room with an intense lack of direction. With his invitation to depart his home, I made haste back to mine, with nothing more than his words to accompany me.
I am glad that I took the diversion, for once again, in my short-sightedness, I might have made yet another fateful error.
Twilight is not well. Twilight needs help, not persecution.
So quick would I have been, merely a year past, to act on impulse and pursue raw emotions. And yet, it led to me driving myself away.
No, I must find her.
With knowledge of her past words, and actions, however, there is one place that I ought to check, as well.
The object lay in the sand at the Bay, positioned upright, as if someone had put it there, right at the edge of the water. I walked straight up to it, as if I had always meant to find it, in that, along the entire length of the bay, illuminated by nothing more than than the stars, did I simply happen to stumble upon it by some sort of cosmic chance.
The Bay is such a beautiful place at night, with perfectly unwavering waters. The whole area is like a great black mirror that reflects the stars above. Nothing bothers the surface. Nothing there but stillness and dots of white upon black. It is like glass, the way it simply lies there, and one could gaze upon the stars by looking downward.
But as I picked the object up, I felt something beginning to stir. Nothing broke the surface of the waters, but I perhaps thought I saw a star or two wink out, replaced by strange shadow that was a little less dark than black. It would have been the reflection of a cloud, maybe, or something overhead.
I never did look up, away from the deep. Almost as if I couldn’t.
With the object in my hooves, the silence suddenly rushed away, and the waves returned along with the sounds of life. It was a peculiar, odd sensation, and I cannot explain it.
I must have spent a good many minutes spending my time staring at the bay, perhaps in a vain effort that I would catch sight of Twilight, and I must have lost track of time, for the next thing I realised, I was back home, placing the object back down upon my table.
I must write to Princess Celestia the first thing in the morning, for now I feel nothing but the need to sleep.
The object is now in my personal safe, in a place where no one will be able to get at it. I have spent a good part of the morning writing my letter to Princess Celestia, explaining the situation, and expressing my concerns over Twilight.
All I have is her final message to me, writ over my writings, which I have placed in an envelope alongside the letter. Hopefully, the Princess will read it soon, and an inquest will be launched. Although I normally trust Twilight to be able to take care of herself, I can’t help the feeling that something quite terrible might have happened.
If there was any time to have a personal dragon, it would be now, but alas.
I must go out now to talk to some of the townsfolk. Perhaps someone saw her that night.
I have adjusted the date on this entry accordingly.
I do not know what has happened, but it seems that today is Thursday, the 21st, and not Wednesday, the 20th.
I must have been mistaken, but it feels odd that I somehow skipped a day and did not realise it. I don’t quite know when it happened either. I definitely came back home on the 18th, as that was the day I made the report of my house being broken into, and the copy of the report that I have clearly states that date.
It is odd. But I suppose we all make mistakes sometimes.
As for my other pursuits, I have not been able to find anyone who has seen Twilight in the last few days. But she was probably in disguise. Travelling around as the Princess would have caused too much of a fuss, so I expect that she has been using some sort of spell this whole time to conceal her identity.
However:
In my recollection, the Old Stallion Fenseed referred to her by name.
I wonder.
No, perhaps I am thinking too much. Perhaps she revealed herself to him in order to use it as leverage. There are many things she could have done, and now is not the time to chase tails. What is more important, of course, is to get Princess Celestia’s help to solve this mysterious circumstance.
No reply from Princess Celestia yet, but I shouldn’t expect things so soon. I will have breakfast in town today. I do not feel like staying here in my house.
Something is going on here, and I do not know what!
I have just found the letter that I wrote to Princess Celestia, along with Twilight’s last correspondence, in my writing table drawer. Thinking back now, I must have forgotten to mail it, for I have no recollection of ever having done it.
I remember visiting the townsfolk to search for Twilight, and I remember visiting Old Stallion Fenseed, and I remember visiting Sidereal Bay. But I do not remember posting this, even though I clearly wrote that I would.
Looking back over the past entries, it seems I have also forgotten to ask Twilight where she got the object.
It is a different sort of forgetfulness. It is the kind where you simply do not remember anything about an object until you see it again. Normally, I would say that this is an indication of something not being important enough, but this is clearly important. I do not see how my memory could have failed me in this manner.
I must say, I am quite frustrated with myself right now.
I will go mail the letter at this very moment, and after this, I will go back to Sidereal Bay to search for anything else Twilight may have left behind, while the day affords.
Today I woke, and to my shock, I was back in my bed. It was shocking for the pure reason that try as I might, I simply can not recall ever coming back home. I can not recall what transpired over the last day in its entirety, and I had to check the dates many times due to my disbelief that I had once more lost a complete day to nothingness.
My last memory was that of travelling to the bay and arriving, only to begin my search of the area.
I am sure that I must have gone there, however, since there is sand tracked into the house and some odd stains on my bed. They appear to be water stains, but I can not be sure.
It is clear that whatever is happening is something that I no longer can take for granted.
I have torn all the pages out of my memoirs starting from the date that Twilight arrived at my house, and I am now keeping them here in my room. I am also, from this point on, going to keep record of everything that has happened to me day by day in the hopes that it will allow my own activities to be laid more bare to myself.
I also found the letter, again, this morning at 10 AM, lying on my dresser top. I have no memory of mailing nor keeping it. But I am holding it here in my hoof at this very moment, and it seems to be mired considerably, as if it had been doused in water and dried.
It is clear something is preventing me from sending out this letter, and something is stealing my memories. But there are always other ways to accomplish the same thing.
If I cannot send a letter, then I shall go in person. I will leave now for the train station.
I went down to the library to find the book that Twilight borrowed — that old one with the tale of the Watchers of the Stars. But the librarian said that no such book existed. I questioned and questioned, pushing it to the point where the librarian was both offended and afraid of my conduct.
But even now, I still feel incited at this! Is she lying to me?
I remember the book existing! It was right here, on this very table where I now write these words! I remember how it looked, and I remember what it said!
I wrote about it, and I wrote about the information!
I refuse to believe it as mere fantasy!
How does this book not exist?
From behind the books came things. But the librarian did not see.
Entry #659/1 states that I had made plans to leave, and yet, I have no recollection of ever even considering the act. I left my house, and went to the library. That is what happened, but here, it states that I had other intentions.
Why can I not remember?
Am I losing my mind? Is there a spell placed upon me to keep me here in this town, complacent and quiet?
I have felt things staring at me, watching me, from out of the corner of my eyes. Even in my own home do they exist — small black things made of dust and static, crawling around the floor, only to disappear when I turn my sight to them.
They live only on the fringe of sight, and stay out of the brightness.
My memory is worsening. I do not remember writing the previous entry. When did it happen? I must have written it after I retrieved the object from my safe.
What does it even mean? How did I speak with it, and what makes sense?
Nothing makes sense!
Everything is jumbled up and upside down, and Twilight is still missing and the shadows keep dancing on my walls.
More and more I feel as though my head were being filled with water.
Things feel different. Strange. I cannot quite describe the sensation. But I have been able to force myself into a state of calm by closing my eyes and thinking of a feeling from the past.
I have been thinking a lot of rain. It calms me. It brings me peace in this storm that I have been living in these past few days.
I feel that there is more to do, but I do not know where to begin. Perhaps I should think about what everything means? If I am unable to seek for help or leave by my own volition, maybe someone outside can assist me. I will have to consider what to do tomorrow.
The sun is going down, and I dare not tread outside in the dark.
I don’t think I slept. Maybe I did, but I did not dream last night, for the first night in many.
I finally steeled myself to leave the safety of my room with the rising of the sun, and the sunlight streaming through my window. There was no other comfort. Try as I might, I am unable to summon the rains to comfort me now, for even that power has left me.
I armed myself with a vase and slowly opened my door, making my way into my dining room, only to be greeted with a sight.
My main door was wide open, and everything was in disarray. Everything had been swept off the dining table; flowers, plates and cutlery and broken porcelain littered the carpet. But the table was not empty.
The object was left there, standing like a monument, set in the middle of a ring of paper, upon which were mad scribblings in some kind of foreign tongue.
These journal pages are covered with mud and ichor and ramblings, and a terrible smell is permeating throughout the house. There are also tracks, mine, leading to my bed, and more mud streaked across it.
My hooves are caked with mud and filth and a sticky black substance that refuses to come away. My hair is completely in disarray, and my mouth feels like it is full of sand.
The days fly by and I cannot remember half of them. There are times when I am so coherent as to be terrified of what has gone by, and times when I am someone else entirely.
But this is a moment of clarity, when a few veils have been lifted.
In the hours after lost time, when I awaken in my home — these are the points when I am finally able to speak as myself, as Rarity, to whomever lays eyes upon this cursed journal.
You can trust these words.
Please, trust these words.
I wake each time with the object watching over me, from the shelf, and I cannot bring myself to move it, nor touch it, for will it not simply find its way back?
There is only one determination to be had, and I fear I have no way of explaining how or why.
The object grips me. It grips me as it has gripped Twilight before. It is the cause. It must be.
And in these pages, my errant claim that I have found Twilight? Did she too not seek something, only to find herself lost?
The map she left, and my current predicament, and these tracks that I bring back with me —
The answer lies in the water!
That accursed bay!
Approach it not. Seek it not. You will be told to go, but they are lies! All lies! Lies to me and lies to Twilight!
Did we not both seek something that carries great importance?
Did we both not find it in the same place?
I return from the bay, and each time I find myself having walked deeper and deeper within, searching for what it is that I want to find the most! How long more before I am swallowed completely?
Is this our fate?
No.
Twilight is out there. Somewhere. I must not think otherwise. I refuse to.
She is not the kind to resign herself to this kind of sordid fate!
I make assumptions to think that her story is the same as mine. But as a writer, I know.
Everyone has their own story. Everyone has their own circumstance. This is mine. And Twilight must be out there, still, waiting for me to find her. The object lies. The object bewitches me.
And while I get swallowed up, I waste time in searching for her.
But there is hope. There is hope!
There are machinations, both good and bad, and while the object seeks to control me, there is something out there that seeks my freedom. I can not trust my own thoughts from before, not knowing when I was in my mind and when I was still under control of this blackhearted thing, but I must consider:
When Twilight herself had her final moment of clarity, she left the object in my room in such a state. And whoever broke into my home for the second time left the object in a similar state — surrounded by paper with writing in a language unknown!
It must have been Twilight herself! There can be no other, for whom else in this entire town knows of this accursed item and whatever it is that lurks under the waters of Seal Bay?
But why she needed to work in secrecy without revealing things to me is something I cannot explain, and something that causes me frustration to think on.
Of course, I now know what possessed me to tear the object away from its paper prison, and now that I am aware, perhaps this battle may be won yet!
However, the papers are lost to me. I must find a way to find new script. I must do research. While the object places me in a jail of my own, preventing communication with the world outside my town, I find myself still able to travel within the boundaries. I must find the book again. Twilight certainly found that measure to break the spell, and I must find it too.
I will make a trip.
A trip to the square.
There must be others that know of these Watchers of so long ago, and I am sure, armed with this knowledge, that I finally have a way to be free.
I will keep the horrid object in my safe. I will place it there and lock it with a number that I shall discard from memory such that not even I may be able to listen to it whisper!
I feel
better
now.
I am sure the light is dawning, finally, at the end of such a bleak and miserable day.
As I left, earlier, I found Old Stallion Fenseed outside my door.
Upon seeing me, he screamed and yelled, kicking up venom, cursing me and wailing such that the whole town might hear.
He asked me why I sought truth so fervently.
It is to find Twilight, is it not? It is to join her, where she may lie.
He told me I was wrong. He told me she was wrong.
He spat at me with such force, telling me not to fight him.
When I asked what I did, he said I would never understand, for if I had, it would be too late.
He then blamed me. It was my fault, he said, that my friend was lost a week past. It was my fault, he said, that I too would find the truth, and that I have doomed everyone in the town.
It was in a rare moment for him when he dropped his voice, steadied himself, and stared straight into my eyes, telling me that he, once, long ago, also sought the truth, and in it found blindness. He warned me, sternly, to stay out of his way and not upset things for the third time.
But what of his have I upset twice before?
He demanded to know, suddenly, where the object was, that he might once more set things right.
It was in my house, I told him. I had no energy to argue. I told him that I had put it away in my safe, and watched as he entered my house without asking, browning paper in hoof, glaring at me all the time, muttering something under his breath with words that I did not recognize.
I do not know what he wanted, but he was a mad old stallion with mad agendas.
Of course, I would never let him get his hooves on something so important.
I now see the path, but I must wait for it to open. Truth is found in reflection. My friend waits for me at the end of truth. She spoke with the child. The child tells me the truth. I will be with her once more. I wait for the path to open.
