> Equinox > by StartOfDawn > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > Overture > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spike knew a thing or two about neurosis, and he’d grown to become aware of the various downward spirals and rabbit holes it could inevitably lead one down to. For now, he could only helplessly observe as the princess of the dawn and dusk herself, Twilight Sparkle, consulted two books simultaneously, hopping from one sentence to the next, from page one to one hundred, brisk and nimble in her perusal. Eventually, upon exhausting both sources, she brought a third book into the mix, settling the previous tomes upon her antique bureau, crowded as it was, a mess Spike knew he would inevitably be forced to deal with. She took a sip of her lukewarm coffee, made a face, and continued. Spike gingerly stepped forth, as if approaching a rabid dog set loose. “Twilight.” He went ignored. “Where is that blasted…” “Twilight!” “What.” “You were supposed to be studying the Canterlotial Renaissance—” “I know, Spike, I know, but this is important.” He gestured towards the nearest calendar mounted on the wall, of which there were many, marked in red all over and worn from use and abuse in the hands of a planner. Twilight was nothing if punctilious in her scheduling. Somehow, this was the one thing she’d either willfully ignored or completely forgotten. It was rare for things to slip her mind, and thus Spike settled on the former as a viable option. “More important than next week’s test?” Twilight paced. “If I’m correct about my theory, there may not be a test at all.” “Why, did they cancel it?” “No.” “Then what’s this about?” Her fretting and treading promptly came to a halt. “Tell me,” she said, brows knitted, “have you ever heard about Nightmare Moon?” “The mythos?” “That’s just it, Spike.” She put her hoof down in the most literal of senses. “If my studies haven’t failed me, she might not be just a folklore.” “And if they have?” “Then I’ll surely flunk that test.” “Well, it is a week away. You still have time.” Twilight, for a fleeting moment, considered this possibility. “Sorry,” she said at last, settling onto her final answer, “but I must continue to investigate this further. Send my mother a letter denoting my absence, will you?” Spike sighed, knowing this song and dance. “She won’t be happy.” “Doubtful. It’d be the first time I’ve ever missed a test.” Finding some fresh parchment and his lucky quill, a repurposed phoenix feather that Philomena, Queen Celestia’s signature pet, had shed long, long ago, Spike returned to his place at Twilight’s side, brandishing both items as a show of his effort and cooperation. She, meanwhile, placed the third book atop her already cramped pile and nearly toppled the whole thing over. Somehow it stayed, aslant but firm, on the verge of crumbling but not quite there yet. Spike decided that his lucky quill had prevented this monumental disaster from unfolding. One could dream, after all. “Well,” he conceded, “you are punctual, alright.” “That’s what I’m counting on.” Twilight paused, pondering. “Do you think I should tell her?” “Hm?” “About Nightmare Moon.” “I think she already knows, Twilight.” “That she may resurge?” “She may what now.” “Isn’t that what we were discussing?” “I thought we were talking about the legend being real, not that she’d return!” “Well, now you know.” “You can’t just drop that on me and not elaborate.” “Fine, you’ll learn as you write the letter. Now, ready your quill because this message is urgent.” “Alright, here goes nothing.” Twilight cleared her throat once, then twice. “‘Dearest mother, in my studies of arcane history I have made a shocking discovery: the disreputable, feared Nightmare Moon may not just be a story for misbehaving foals and Nightmare Night festivities after all. It has been told by various sources that the denoted chains of harmony that bind her to our moon will dissipate on the thousandth year of her banishment. Something must be done at once. Signed, Twilight Sparkle.’” With a full stop and a flurry of smoke, the parchment dissipated. The realization set in. “Oh.” And suddenly everything made sense. “That’s no good.” “I know.” Twilight, her face spelling concern, continued her pacing. “Little’s been told or written about Nightmare Moon, but she may be a rival of mom’s of some sort, considering they’re both alicorns. I’m not sure. All I know is that she’s been banished to the moon through the use of some powerful artifact.” “Why an artifact?” Twilight despaired. “Because nopony’s magic is strong enough to send another to the moon!” “Not even your mother’s?” “There’s always a limit, Spike,” she said, “remember that.” “Okay, but I’m still not fully conv—” Spike felt a familiar tingle at the back of his throat before a belch of fire made its way past his parted lips and, along with it, another scroll, neatly folded and sealed with the royal wax stamp that bled a vivid red onto the otherwise cream coloured parchment. Queen Celestia, it seemed, was equally as meticulous as her daughter, if not more so. Twilight, acknowledging the commotion, quit her fretting in favour of this new development. She hadn’t been expecting an answer so soon. Queen Celestia, as involved as she was apropos of her daughter’s many a project, was also rather preoccupied with her duties and current affairs. Twilight had gotten a taste of the politics involved and she’d long decided this destiny was not a desirable one in the slightest. “Oh, that was quick.” Spike snatched the letter from the floor. “I’ll say.” He, much like the princess before him, cleared his throat. “‘My dearest student and daughter, though I deeply value your diligence and interest in esoteric history, there is more to life than studying. I’ve made the decision to send you to supervise the preparations for the Summer Sun Celebration that shall be held in Ponyville for this year. And with that I bestow upon you an even bigger task: make some friends. I have faith you’ll overcome both hurdles in no time. With love, your mother.’” Silence. The pile of books behind Twilight collapsed with a resounding ‘blam’; an omen, surely. “… Dang it.”