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# System prepended metadata

title: The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 1-8
tags: [The Swirling Menagerie]

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# The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 1-8
###### tags: `The Swirling Menagerie`
Original story written by [Solanon](https://ponepaste.org/user/solanon) in greentext, read it here: [<span style="color:#2CAF26">Vol. I</span>](https://ponepaste.org/4272) ☼ [<span style="color:#2CAF26">Vol. II</span>](https://ponepaste.org/4285) ☼ [<span style="color:#2CAF26">Vol. III</span>](https://ponepaste.org/4286). Prose adaptation done with his support. Feel free to comment if you spot any mistakes!


Green updates are posted to the [Technology Isn't Magic](https://boards.4channel.org/mlp/thread/38794327) thread on /mlp/.
Chapter titles to be added later.

<span id="chapter-1.html"></span>

Chapter 1 - Sister of Solemnity
===============================

**PART I**  
**UNCONVENTIONAL TRUTHS**

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

Mater Solis awakens, and you along with Her.

Though you see nothing from the darkness of your quarters but for a
sliver of light at the edge of your vision, you *know* She is risen. Her
energy is great, and Her spirit infallible and shared among you and your
sisters.

What is you, is you. And what is Her, is Her. But what is yours and Hers
is all that you see and think and feel. These are the sensations by
which She communicates herself to you. Not directly, for Her voice you
cannot yet hear.

But the time is near, this you know to be true.

Time for the Matron Celest to bestow upon you the power to witness a
portion of Her divinity.

Your thoughts are scrambled. Confused and uncertain in the darkness, you
remove yourself from your bed. You scratch your tired eyes with a hoof
to summon away the drowsiness. The sliver of light across the room, but
a taste of Mater Solis, grows brighter, thicker, and stronger as it
crests past the windowsill.

Now the stone room is cast in a soft hazy morning light, and in this
light, you may better see. Not with your eyes, though there is much to
see with them, but with your heart and mind. You had awoken from a
shameful dream, yes, one in which you presupposed to know the Matron
Celest’s wishes for your fate.

Ascendance? At your age? Don’t be ridiculous. How this thought could
even have entered your humble, stupid mind was all but inconceivable.
The work of a Naiad, perhaps? A tempter of the Depths?

Or perhaps… something even more sinister?

No… nothing is more sinister than a demon so foul, that which leads
ponies to drown in ignorance.

Ignorance of Mater Solis, of her endless devotion to ponykind, of her
great and wise nature.

In any case, you should not deign to predict the Matron’s actions, not
even within the mists of the dream realm. You are but a humble disciple,
and this you shall remain until the time at which you have been deemed
ready.

After relaxing your spirit by offering a libation of words to Mater
Solis, you turn from the windowsill and take in your surroundings. These
are not your normal quarters. Where normally you sleep alone, you share
these with three other disciples.

They are other Sisters of Solemnity, like yourself, who have been tasked
with making the morning meal for the rest of the convent. You must
awaken at first light, before all other sisters, bless the Breaking of
Day with the usual offerings, take to the proper ritual of cleansing
within the kitchen, and mix the mushroom broth which will be served to
everypony at the strike of the Ninth Hour. This assignment, which has
lasted now for nineteen days, will continue for the duration of the
month, at which time another group of sisters will take on the task.

As usual, you are the first to rise; the other three are wrestling with
their sheets. You decide to intervene.

“Come, sisters. The dawnbreak has arrived. We can’t dawdle each and
every day in this fashion.”

The one named Orange Swirl, her long lavender mane tightly wound into
the traditional knot of the Sisterhood, groans and tightens her
blankets.

“Five more minutes?”

You smirk. “The dawn waits for no mare. Up, sisters.”

Resigning to their fates, the three cease their struggling and depart
their simple cots. Joining you in the doorway, they appear to be less
than prepared to do their duties. Much less enthusiastic. Not you,
though.

Each day this month has felt like a greater blessing than the last,
having the chance to acquaint yourself with the radiance of Mater Solis
in a way that is not always available to you. Single file, the four of
you exit the bedroom and, crossing the landing over which the lower
halls might be glimpsed, you enter the washroom to don your robes.

Each robe, folded and stacked upon one another in a single neat pile, is
wine-colored with bright yellow accents, and the sigil of Mater adorning
its flanks. You retrieve the robe on top and, careful to do so in just
the proper fashion as is coded within the scripture, drape it across
your body, tying the simple yellow ropes about your midsection to keep
the garment in place.

Nothing is sweeter than following the instructions of the scripture to
the letter. Just to convince the frantic part of your brain that you
have done exactly so, you step over to the mirror on the far wall to
examine yourself. The mirror is not for self-admiration, you remind
yourself again and again as you prepare to look upon your own visage.
Your face is nothing, only an aspect of the vessel that carries your
shining spirit.

Taking in a deep breath, you raise your head to look on the reflection.
Satisfied with what you see, you lift a forehoof off the floor to grasp
the shroud collected at the back of your neck, and pull. You keep your
eyes squarely focused on your reflection as she mirrors your motions,
covering with the burgundy hood her dark mane.

Covering her ears, her scalp. Covering that bony protrusion jutting from
her forehead, a symbol of her blaspheming. A symbol of the hubris of
ponykind, who dared to try and match the magic which Mater Solis
mastered.

You’ve no use for it, nor for magic.

You are a Sister of Solemnity.

You are Twilight Sparkle.

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<img src="https://u.smutty.horse/mhstotpfrgb.jpg">

<span id="chapter-2.html"></span>

Chapter 2
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

You stand at the cusp of a pot of broth, taking in your handiwork.

For nineteen days now, you and your fellow sisters have made it fresh
each morning for the entire convent. It has been one hour since you
awoke. Now, the doors of the dining hall swing open by automation, and
three hundred mares, each sporting the same robes as yours, enter in
three lines across the threshold and towards the serving table.
Wordlessly, they each step up in turn, taking the ladle in hoof and
pouring a helping of broth into their bowls. Once all others have been
served, you are allowed to help yourself and be seated.

Your bowl in hoof, you sit at the nearest table, and soon your three
morning service sisters join you. They are Orange Swirl, a pegasus;
Cherry Berry, an earth pony; and Blossom Delight, a fellow unicorn.
These sisters, all of whom you have made close acquaintances with in
your time here, have nevertheless become somewhat closer in the last
several days. What once was friendly acknowledgment has become
fraternization, an opportunity only afforded by mealtimes.

“Did you hear the news about the construction?” Orange Swirl began.

“What construction?” asked Cherry Berry.

“Another one of those ghastly labor towers going to be built not four
blocks from the convent, to the south. A clear patch of sky in that
direction, such a scarcity these days, masked in stone grey.”

“No! I sit at the corner of the Sun Garden on the elevated mound
sometimes and gaze in that direction. Something else ruined by
blasphemers.”

“When could you possibly have the time to gaze, Cherry?” You asked.

“Whenever I can catch a break from prayer, Twilight. It could do you
some good to gaze sometimes, you know.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that at all. Besides, having a break from
prayer means you’re praying too fast. Recite slowly, Mater commends
patience.”

Orange Swirl snorts. “Regardless, sisters, you just know that if it
weren’t for the zoning plea which the Matron bargained out, they’d be
building them right to our east and west too.”

“To blot out the rising and setting sun. What manner of creature could
love the darkness so much as to willingly entrench themselves in it,
nay, to build it around themselves?”

“The worst of it is out west. I overheard a food supplier say that in
Las Pegasus, they’ve built massive grav-platforms, designs ripped
straight from the New Maker’s Handbook, and dotted them all across the
city. Imagine, monstrous floating discs underneath which eternal night
is cast, all in the name of creating more space for the heathens to
reside in the skies.”

“I don’t want to sound condoning, but what use could the pegasi with
their flight magic possibly find with… you said, ‘grav-platforms’?”
You'd never heard that term before.

“Therein lies the good news, if one could call it that. That zealous
Cult of Exsilium has gained a militant foothold in the west these past
few months, and have made it dangerous to practice magic. The news is
slow, but as it stands, it seems as though the Blight is receding from
that whole part of the world, replaced by a foundation of Maker tech.”

“If you ask my opinion, Maker tech is no less an affront to Her than the
Blight.” Blossom said.

You stare her down, and she recedes slightly in her posture. “The Blight
of magic is the enemy of ponykind, Blossom Delight.” You use her full
name to emphasize the severity of her indiscretion. “Meanwhile, Maker
tech comes from the earth, Her natural counterpart.”

“The designs, however, do not. They come from elsewhere and are just as
indecipherable in their nature as magic. Twilight, surely you know that
what is unnatural to the mind is unnatural to the Syncresis?”

The Syncresis. A phrase you had never thought would be turned against
you. “I don’t find it unnatural. I find it fascinating. In fact, I’ve
expressed wishes in the past to the Matron to modernize the convent
based on descriptions of—”

“Twilight! Here I thought you were a purist!” The words leave Orange
Swirl’s lips in a joking tone, but you can tell there is derision in
them.

“Orange, if you truly believe that my devotion to Her Radiance is
incompatible with my interest in Maker tech, then you sorely
misunderstand me as a pony and as Her servant.”

To your surprise, Orange Swirl is seemingly uninjured by these words.
Rather, she stifles a laugh. “The fact of the matter is that you simply
cannot know enough about the stuff to pass judgment on its
applications.”

“And I suppose you do?”

“I know what is wrong in my heart. As should you, Twilight. You’re
worrying me with this talk.”

“Your worry is unfounded, sister. I’ll admit I hardly understand the
wonders of the Makers any more than any of you do. But I do know one
thing: that it is not synonymous with the Blight, though it may seem to
be as mystical. There are underlying explanations for all its
functions.”

“Celestia explains the function of her magic in Verse 4003 of the Ninth
Book. She describes it as—”

“As ‘a swirling menagerie of change, a poetry which recites itself, an
infinite pool from which to draw the power of undying Mother, and as it
is mine only to draw upon, do well, you children of ponies, to listen no
more to its recitations, and find solace in the condition of your
lessers, who cannot do as you do.’ Yes, I know. It’s hardly an
expression of working knowledge.”

“And yet she knew its functions in a perfect way, and for this reason
denied her faithful the permission to use it on behalf of the Mother.”

“The Prophetess knew only what was spoken to her. The mechanisms belying
Maker tech were known by the Makers as absolutes.”

Cherry Berry re-inserts herself into the debate. “So I suppose if
somepony were to develop a map of magical functions as absolute, they
would cease to be Blight? Is this your contention, Sister Twilight?”

You curse silently, immediately offering Mater Solis an invocation of
regret for even imagining such language. They’ve cornered you. “Th–that
isn’t what I meant. Besides, the Blight is inherently unpredictable.”

“What is unpredictable now may one day be fully encompassed in our realm
of understanding, but that does not make the Blight any less of a
blasphemy. Knowing what evil is capable of does not dispel or even
diminish the severity of that evil.”

You sink into your seat. “They are different, Orange Swirl. I may not
convince you of that, but it’s what I believe. We are allowed small
conveniences that the Makers invented in this convent by the Matron, but
magic is expressly forbidden. Would you call her judgment into
question?”

“I…”

You’ve got her now. “Sisters, I hardly think the Matron is a hypocrite.
Her will is the will of Mater, for Mater speaks through her and all
other Matrons across Equestron. Mater Solis does not reject Maker
technology. Celestia did not hate the Makers; she was merely humbled by
them. I’m offended that you would even compare their creations to magic
in the first place.”

With that, you finish off your broth and set to work at collecting the
empty bowls of some of the faster eaters in the dining hall. From the
corner of your eye, you see your sisters exchange worried glances. They
concern themselves with your opinions when they should be concerned
about their work. Glancing around, you see several sisters with eyes
firmly locked on your hurried figure, no doubt having listened in on
your conversation.

Perhaps that last part was a bit too loud…

You worry that they may think less of you for being so callous with
them. You’ve never been very… tactful, to say the least, when it comes
to your opinions on such matters. You swallow the pride that has so
often gotten you into raw situations and return to the table, where the
rest have finished their bowls.

“Sisters, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be coarse. It’s just that—”

“Twilight.” Orange Swirl stands, taking one last gulp of her broth. “I
pushed you. I suppose I should have known what would happen. You’re a
mare with strong opinions on certain things.”

“We aren’t mares here, Orange. At least, we shouldn’t be. We should be
only servants of the Sun.”

“Should servants not find different interpretations of the same
commandment?”

You smile softly. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-3.html"></span>

Chapter 3
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

A bell rings.

The great bell, to be precise.

It is outfitted with an automated timer, nothing too fancy, just a
magnetic oscillator which runs at just the right frequency to measure
out the hours of the day. It was an early little trick presented to
ponykind by the Makers over a thousand years ago, and yet this one was
only installed in the convent relatively recently. On the hour, the
pulse from the timer triggers the bell mechanism, while also running
through additional wires as electrical currents spread all across the
building. These pulses would trigger little clanging bells inside boxes
about the size of a hoof to alert those in rooms where the great bell
was not audible.

You had studied the masses of wires within the walls on occasion, and
even repaired them once or twice. You are the only one who ever bothered
to learn how. It’s easy to imagine that when you’re gone from the earth
to the Mother’s Garden, nopony would bother to maintain them, and the
small luxury would fall into disrepair as so many others have.

You’ve lost yourself in thought again. You, along with a group of about
forty other sisters, shuffle across the wide courtyard at the center of
the convent. The great bell continues to boom within its residence above
you, in the bell tower.

Cherry Berry, Blossom Delight, and Orange Swirl march to your left,
their heads bowed, their mouths moving wordlessly. You do so as well,
mouthing the Litany of Praise over and over. You are careful not to
allow the edges of the robe draped across your form to drag along the
ground. Each pony in the crowd is shrouded, so as not to allow the light
of the sun to touch their eyes until after the morning study has begun.

A grouping of plain wooden benches is set up before you, lining the dewy
grass in neat rows. Before them, a small altar, three stairs high, and
atop it an earth pony whom you know all too well.

You seat yourself beside your sisters, and the service begins.

The mare on the altar mutters an inaudible phrase, though you know well
its meaning. She lifts her muzzle ever so slightly, swaying her head
side to side, her eyes closed to the world, her mind open to Her
Radiance. She speaks, loudly enough to hear this time.

“*Mater Solis fas liberare capita phaleras humilitatis. Lucem permittit
nos intuemur tuum et grati estote. Gloriam quasi decima hora vestra
liceat ordinari. Nos gratias ago vos Mater Solis, in hac die et in
omnibus diebus.*”

As the final syllable of the ancient tongue leaves her lips, the bell at
last ceases its tolling. Ten strikes. All at once, you, the sisters
seated all about you, and other sisters in your field of vision trotting
across the courtyard remove your hoods, allowing the light above you to
wash over your countenances.

The spring Sun is the most beautiful, you have always conceded.

Others claim that honor goes to the summer Sun, when Vestal Celestia
emboldens Her with warmth. Others still prefer the winter Sun, which
blazes above a frozen land as a sole beacon of faith. But for your part,
the spring Sun is golden and glorious, warm and lasting, pleasing and
easy to please.

“Rise, sisters, recite the Litany of Truth.”

As one, you and your thirty-nine sisters stand and whisper in tandem.

“Blessed is the truth of Celestia as it is spoken through her by the
Mother of wisdom and compassion. Blessed is the word of the prophetess
of the Goddess, it is Truth, it is to be praised. I am humble, I am
bound to Her by Her will, and Her word is my law. What She wills, She
commands in my heart, and I am entrusted to deliver Her will to the
nations of the world. Praise be to Her, the Goddess Mater Solis. Amen.”

“Sit.”

As you do so, the mare steps down from her podium and walks down the
center “aisle”, a space between two groups of twenty chairs each. Her
pitch black robe flows gently behind her as a cool breeze picks up in
the yard. Slowly, deliberately, she speaks.

“The Fable of the Mountain Pass. When the prophetess Celestia crossed
the mountain Fillai to warn the villagers at its back of an impending
flood, which would sweep away their homes, drown their crops, and cause
great mayhem and even death to all who experienced the wrath of the
Naiads, she came across an old stallion guarding the narrowest point of
the mountain pass. She inquired unto him, ‘Why, sir, do you stand guard
here, when there is no home to be found in these mountains, nor anywhere
in sight?’ The stallion replied, ‘I have no home but the pass. I guard
this pass from the invaders that once defiled my home, and may do so
once more. If they should overpower me, I shall run back down the slope
to the village and warn my kith and kin of their doom.’

"In turn, Celestia spoke unto him, ‘A greater doom than nomads comes. A
furious flood shall overtake this pass and sweep into the valley below,
bringing horrible misery to your kith and kin.’ The stallion simply
replied, ‘I see no flood, nor the rain that might bring it. I see only
you as a threat, bringing dark news to worry my people. I shall not let
you pass and encumber them with your false words.’”

The Matron Celest stops upon reaching the last row of chairs, turning
round on old joints and marching back towards the altar, her head held
high.

“Celestia had wings. She could fly over this stubborn pony and deliver
her warning regardless of his approval, for she had seen the flood and
its lethality. She could overpower him, for he was frail, and she
mighty. But, for a moment, she sat with him, and shared a glance. She
asked him who numbered among his family in the village beyond the pass,
to which he replied, ‘I am the only son of a glassblower. He is dead
now, as is his wife.’ She asked him who numbered among his friends in
the village, to which he replied, ‘All those I knew once have passed
into nothing. Only I remain of a time which remembered pain.’

"So Celestia asked him this: why did he call them his kith and kin, and
why did he devote his life to defending them from tyranny, when he knew
not their names, nor their faces? The stallion replied, ‘It is my burden
to bear, and I bear it gladly, so that others shall not share my fate.’
To which Celestia said, ‘You protect the villagers without knowing them,
for their bliss is Truth in your eyes. Yet you deny my word that there
is danger looming, for you cannot see it? Your hypocrisy is plain to
see.’”

Turning once more, the Matron focuses her eyes, scanning the expressions
of each sister in turn. Her eyes seem to lock onto yours for a moment
longer than the others.

“The stallion stood, and offered this: ‘I know you, Celestia. You were a
princess once, and as a princess you told lies. But when the first of
the Makers came and cast you out from your temple, you came to see the
light of Truth, and weighed it against the judgment with which you had
been born. Your hypocrisy is ever plainer. You seek to save lives, yet
you refuse to save your own.’ Referring, of course, to the Prophecy of
the Prophetess, which by this point had become common knowledge in the
land of Old Equestria. In some versions of the story, usually those
intended for foals, Celestia convinces the stallion by his own turn of
phrase to let her pass, and he does so, and she warns the villagers, and
they evacuate. But in the more common version, and this is the version
we will be discussing, Celestia turns back, her acolytes in tow, and
retreats from the pass, and the village is flooded, and the villagers
all drowned.”

The Matron pauses for emphasis, offers a brief prayer, then speaks aloud
once more.

“The message is cryptic, but let us analyze what has happened.
Celestia’s words were the Truth. They came from her own sight, her own
knowledge of the situation at hoof. She was not deceived in this, and
she made the conscious effort to warn the villagers. Yet when she backed
down, she was not reprimanded by Mater Solis; in fact, she was commended
for her insight and for taking a step down the path to perfection.
Perfection, for being convinced by an old stallion in a pass to abandon
what she knew was right. Of course, we all know why she did it, in the
end. Does somepony want to show off their knowledge? Twilight, perhaps?”

You blush slightly, and stand. “Because the old stallion was an avatar
of Mater Solis. Because his word was a greater Truth than even Celestia
could hope to counter.”

“Good. This is supported by many writers, and has come to be taken as
the best interpretation of the fable. But, you will note, nowhere in the
fable is this expressly stated. Implied, perhaps. But let us imagine for
a moment that we are Celestia, and we cannot say for certain that this
old stallion is anything but just that. Let us even throw away our
understanding of the Truth altogether, and say that neither party has
the extant high ground. What then, in terms of pure logic, might be the
reason that Celestia turned around and left the village to their doom?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a light blue hoof shoot up into
the air.

“Sister Bluebell?”

The yellow-maned sister stands, and briefly recites a prayer under her
breath before speaking. “I’ve always considered the fable to show that
Celestia, though a prophetess, was not infallible, and that she realized
that her hypocrisy was greater than that of the stallion. Where hers was
the ultimate futility of not knowing if her efforts would save Old
Equestria from a dark fate while also resigning herself to a fate that
she could prevent by not choosing to follow the path she did, the
stallion’s was simply that he refused to believe what he could not see
when he existed solely to defend a perceived innocence that he also
couldn’t see.”

“A valid point, Bluebell. Good answer. But there is something else to
this fable that is often overlooked in interpretation, and that is the
role of her acolytes. Though they followed Celestia and obeyed her
wishes, they would hardly stand idly by as she abandoned her own cause
if she were not justified in doing so. Simply weighing her hypocrisy
against that of another should not make Celestia’s quest to save the
villagers any less noble, and yet she abandons them all the same.
Celestia was not hypocritical in her life’s work per se, but solely in
this moment. Saving the villagers from the flood was never about their
lives, it was about preserving the land they walked upon. Though the
flood ravaged that soil, today it is fertile, and has been for nearly a
thousand years. The acolytes knew this when they recorded Celestia’s
teachings. So, then we return to the stallion’s final words to Celestia:
‘You seek to save lives, yet you refuse to save your own.’ A phrase that
would seem to apply to him as well.”

The Matron Celest swipes her hoof through the air, a show of finality.

“The old stallion was not Mater Solis, but Celestia herself. His
hypocrisy was not tantamount to her own, it was equivalent. The ponies
of the valley were Old Equestria, and the flood its future. The most
crushing of sacrifices, all hanging on moral principle, and all involved
let it pass. When two hypocrisies meet, one must give in to the other.
But Celestia learned her lesson that day, and the village, its denizens,
and the old stallion were drowned. He had exchanged the wisdom he bore
to her for death. Ultimately, it was Celestia who was victorious, even
at the cost of her own life.”

In your mind’s eye, you see the wires in the walls shorting, corroding,
failing. In time, there will be nothing left of them.

“Now, Sister Lavender Hoof, will you kindly distribute the study books?
Everypony, please turn to page 172, and recite after me…”

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-4.html"></span>

Chapter 4
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

The great bell chimes eleven times.

The morning study session has concluded, and gradually the sisters
around you stand and stretch. Cherry Berry yawns, raising her forehooves
into the air.

“Was this the longest study session we’ve ever had or what?”

“You’re only tired because you refuse to adjust to our new sleep
schedule.” Orange replies.

“My body sleeps when it wants to sleep, I have no control over it. The
Mater guides my cycle as she deems proper.”

“That’s a long-winded way of calling yourself lazy, Cherry.”

You can’t help but stifle a giggle at Orange’s comment. “Sisters, calm
yourselves. Group meditation begins in fifteen minutes.”

Blossom Delight suddenly gasps. “Naiads drown me. I think my blindfold
slipped out of the pocket of my robe. I can’t find it.”

“I’ll help you look for it in our quarters.”

“Me too.”

As you prepare to offer your own assistance, a voice calls out your name
from behind.

“I… I’ll meet you three at meditation!”

Your sisters trot off across the sunlit courtyard, and you turn to face
the source of the voice. The Matron Celest stands before you, her old
eyes smiling with wisdom.

“Sister Twilight. Come walk with me, child.”

You obey, and the two of you set off at a slow gait towards the stone
path bisecting the yard.

“I didn’t know you were leading the study session today, Matron. Is
Sister Freshleaf well?”

“She is not sick, if that is your question. I’ve given her the morning
off, and all the rest this week, so that I might directly engage with
each group.”

“It caught me off guard. But you made for a wonderful instructor.”

“I should certainly hope so. I only served in the position for 34 years
before my current standing. What did you think of the little excursion
at the beginning?”

“The mountain pass? It’s always puzzled me. But your insights were
fascinating. Who could guess that after all this time, new cases could
be made about Celestia’s true intentions?”

“Celestia was a complicated mare, Twilight. Those who claim to know
absolutely the Truth of why she did what she did to serve the Mater are
either fools or liars. All we may offer are guesses. It’s simply the
best we can do.”

Coming to the end of the stone path, you walk into the shade of the
overhang. Turning left, the slotted pillars adorning the edge of the
inner path make a slideshow out of the exterior yard as you move past
them. A group of filly initiates, led by a sister instructress, seems to
jump to a new spot every time you are given the chance to glimpse them.

“Matron… why did you ask to see me? Am I in trouble?”

The Matron chuckles, and your gaze is diverted back to her eyes. Twin
grey pools stare back at you. Her sight has been gradually failing her
for years, yet she does not require a guide in these halls. She knows
this place as a mother knows her foal.

“Twilight, you ask me the same question every time I pull you aside from
your peers. You are not a filly anymore, and I cannot discipline you as
I once did. No, I require your presence for… other matters.”

The two of you turn once more, this time passing beneath a stone archway
leading into the interior of the convent. With another left turn, you
realize at once she is leading you to her office. This was the path you
once took whenever you needed the guidance of this great mare. She had
been, without any shadow of doubt in your mind, a mother to you.

The closest you had.

She had stepped outside the boundaries of her position on numerous
occasions to nurture your growth, for you had seemed to her a prodigy of
sorts. At least, this is what she had told you. You refused to believe
you were special simply because you had been dropped on the doorstep of
the convent rather than initiated proper. But it had led you to cross
paths with the wisest pony who has ever existed. To be close with her,
and to share in her knowledge, was and is a treasure to be coveted.

You utter a silent prayer of libation to Mater and find yourself
standing before twin oak chamber doors, immaculately carved with images
of fire-breathing dragons, solenoidal angels, and other evocative
imageries. Without a word, you open the doors, letting the Matron pass
through first, and then following in tow.

The Matron’s office is a fascinating room, one where many of your
fondest memories were created. Soft velvet carpets of varying, exotic
patterns are spread symmetrically across the flooring, a far cry from
the stone tiles which make up the floor of most of the convent’s
chambers. The painted walls are decorated with fabrics which flow in the
gentle breeze circulating through them from the open windows. Copies of
paintings depicting important moments from the Twelve Books of the Sun
line the walls, many of them tilted on their hooks. You’ve long
suspected the Matron tilts them on purpose to make them more noticeable
to the eye, and therefore more powerful.

The Matron Celest takes a seat at her rich mahogany desk, and gestures
for you to sit across from her on one of the curved wooden chairs. By
her left hoof, there is a brass telephone, the only one in the entire
convent.

The Matron sighs deeply, and begins.

“Twilight, I am about to say some things. You may not like to hear them.
This is my warning to you beforehand.”

Your throat tightens, and your hindlegs begin to shake beneath the desk.

“I knew it! I am in trouble! Oh, Celestia forgive me! Matron, I deeply
apologize for whatever my transgression may be, and I promise you I
shall repent to the best of my—”

“Twilight.”

“Sorry.”

“You aren’t in any trouble, child. But you are deeply troubled, and that
is plain to see. You haven’t come to visit me here in my office for some
time. And though I’d like to believe it’s because you no longer need my
guidance to find the right path, it’s clear to me that the opposite is
true. What is preventing you from coming to talk with me, as we once
did?”

“I’ve only been busy, Matron. That’s all. The first light breakfast
duties, morning study. I’ve been studying alone much more often
recently. I’ve taken up interest in sewing, too. If you’d like to see
some of my designs—”

“Yet, something else pulls at your heart.”

“There’s no point in hiding it then, is there? From you.”

“Or from anypony else. Even my tired eyes can see the longing written
across your face. I know that you desire to be ascended. The question
is, do you think that you deserve such an honor?”

“I’ve dreamed of it for years. To be at your side, for that to be a
requirement of my position here. To take on all the responsibilities
that entails. Matron, I—”

“Do you deserve it?”

You struggle for words, before taking on a resigned posture.

“I don’t know. I… I feel ready, maybe. But I just don’t know. Everything
I’ve done since the age of seven has been in service of becoming a
Sister Solaris. I want to know Mater Solis’ Truth, her will, everything,
from instinct, not just through study. Don’t get me wrong, Matron, I
love the texts, I devote every waking hour I have to myself to
understanding them, criticizing them, knowing what they represent. But
to witness Her glory, even a piece of it, directly, as you do… it would
be worth ten thousand lifetimes as a disciple.”

“Yet you have only lived a fraction of one.”

“I know. And I know that my thoughts are selfish. And that I should
never presuppose your intentions for me. But I can’t help it. It comes
to me in dreams, the thought of being a Sister Solaris. I’ve justified
them as temptations of the Naiads, but in truth, they are simply my own
thoughts, free from persuasion.”

The Matron Celest reaches across the narrow desk, wiping away the tear
which has manifested on your cheek.

“Twilight, I shall say this only once. My will is the will of Mater, and
my Truth her Truth. So you may understand that my judgment in this is
absolute.”

You cringe, bracing yourself for a great emotional blow…

“It is my opinion that you are not ready to ascend to the position of
Sister Solaris.”

There it is. You sink in your seat, eyes cast downward to hide your
shame, heart cast into oblivion.

How could you think that at only seventeen, you would be considered for
such a high honor? You find yourself infinitely more distraught that you
thought imaginable. Yes, it was hubris that put you in this position,
hubris and false hope. Prodigy or not, you were not ready.

Perhaps you never would be…

“No, Twilight, you are not to be a Sister Solaris.”

You are nearly too emotional to hear the Matron’s words.

“You shall be the Matron Celest.”

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-5.html"></span>

Chapter 5
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

“Twlht…”

“Twiiiiilhhh…”

You groan.

Colors begin to take shape out of the darkness, materializing from
infinite shadows. Your hearing, too, gradually returns to you, as though
you were resurfacing from the depths of deafening waves.

Why are you lying on the floor?

“Twilight?”

A voice, somewhere, somehow. The voice you heard in your dream. What a
terrifying dream that was! To imagine that the Matron would say
something so inappropriate, so shocking, was nearly blasphemy in and of
itself.

“Twilight, are you alright?”

“Whuuu… what?”

“Twilight, you passed out. You fell out of your seat.”

Your eyes snap wide open. The colors cease their swirling and take
definite form. The strange sounds rippling within your eardrums become
recognizable.

Oh, dear Celestia… oh, Prophetess of the Sun and the Stars… That was no
dream.

“Matron…”

“Is your head alright, child? You’re swimming.”

“I’m… okay. I’m alright, Matron. Just a little hazy, that’s all.”

Another voice whispers behind you, one you cannot bring yourself to turn
and face. The Matron disappears for a moment, then returns to your field
of vision holding a glass of water.

“Drink this, child. Pick yourself up.”

You do so, gulping down every last drop in a second and a half. Only in
the moment that the cool liquid washes down your throat do you realize
how dry it had become. Slowly, trembling with every movement, you set
the empty glass down on the carpet and lift your shivering body off the
floor.

“M-Matron, I…”

“Shhh. It’s alright, child. I understand completely. You mustn’t justify
your reaction to me. Though I must admit, it was quite a bit… *more*
than I anticipated. I’m simply happy you didn’t hurt yourself falling
off that chair.”

You are dizzy, uncertain. Conflicting thoughts slam against one another
within your brain. At last, you conjure up a complete thought.

“How? How could you possibly believe I’m ready for something like that?”

The Matron smiles warmly, placing her hoof upon your wither.

“Twilight, you’ve become a devout sister, a learned young disciple, and
a worthy acolyte of Celestia’s teachings. You have spent the entirety of
your life within the walls of this convent. Your peers, Bluebell, Orange
Swirl, the others… they came here of their own volition, when they were
old enough to understand what being a sister here meant, and yet none of
them share the devotion to Mater that you have. You were barely a day
old when I found you at the common shrine in the front garden, and on
that day I promised to do all that I could to foster your growth into
what you have already become. There was no favoritism involved. I did
not extend additional honors towards you, nor did I allow you to shirk
the responsibilities you were given. I only ever offered you guidance,
Twilight. I wanted to see you become a Sister Solaris, and perhaps,
eventually take on my responsibilities when I am gone. And yet…”

The Matron turns away from you, shuffles across the carpet, and stares
longingly out the open window into the light of the sun.

“I am old. Far too old to consider the possibility that I might continue
to lead you naturally into my position. Before long, I will pass, and
there is nothing that can be done about that. What I wanted for you can
no longer be. When I pass into the Mother’s Garden, Sister Freshleaf or
Sister Tenderheart shall take my place. When this occurs, there is no
guarantee that you will live to become my successor. You, too, shall
grow old, as a Sister Solaris rather than in the position you rightfully
deserve.”

This is all far too much to take in. You breathe in, then out, focusing
on the meditative practices which you were taught from a young age to
relieve stress.

“Why me? Why nopony else? Who am I to be the Matron Celest? To replace
you?”

“Let me answer your question with a question, if I may. What do we mean
when we talk about the Blight?”

“The Blight? It’s the dark consequence of ponies using magic in cheap
imitation of Mater Solis. It’s a mockery of the faith, and it turns the
hearts of ponies black.”

“Precisely. And what is the single unavoidable consequence of the
Blight, that which even the Sisters of Solemnity, the most devout
practitioners of Mater Solis’ will, cannot prevent themselves from
indulging? Not even me?”

You know where this is going.

“The cutie mark. When a sister taps her potential, the Blight
inexplicably marks them with a symbol of their talent for life. An
unnatural event, and unexplainable as all magics are. Nopony can prevent
their cutie mark from manifesting. Except…”

“Except for you, Twilight.”

The Matron approaches you, lifting the tail-end of your robe from your
flank, revealing…

Nothing.

“Your flank is untainted by the cutie mark. Even now, beyond any
reasonable timeframe during which you might have attained it, you are
pure even of that aspect of the Blight. As time passed then, when all
others of your age began to receive theirs, you never did. I daresay it
is a sign of divinity.”

“But—”

“Ah, but to say so, nay, to even think so, may be blasphemous. And above
all, a Matron shall not be blasphemous. She shall not assume the nature
of the Truth that is fed to her by Mater, she should only accept what
she is given, and make of the world which She created, only what is
known. Which brings me to my final justification, and by far the most
important.”

“Matron, if I may interject. I just don’t know if I’m capable of
handling anywhere near the level of responsibility which you handle on a
daily basis. I’m not ready.”

“Twilight, one thing at a time. To answer your concerns in a brief
sense, to shortly be elaborated upon, you are not ready. But soon you
will be.”

This comment leaves you even more confused. First she says you’re ready
to be a Matron, now you aren’t? How is your blank flank alone an
indication that you should receive this position on a silver platter?

The Matron seems to notice the puzzled look on your face, turning her
body and walking towards the far wall. She stops before the largest
painting in her office, raising her head seemingly to admire it. Slowly,
you walk forward and plant yourself by her side.

The painting depicts the prophetess Celestia in her radiant glory,
having only just been denied entry to her own palace by the Makers, who
had forcibly taken it from her. She stands tall upon a rocky
outcropping, one foreleg raised, her body poised in its revealing
nudity.

After a time, all depictions of Celestia, in keeping with the modesty
laws of the church, dressed her in the black garments of a Matron
Celest. This painting is of an older era, one which enforced no such
rules on faithful artists.

Exposed in a barren land, devoid of her people, with nothing but the
Truth of Mater Solis to guide her, Celestia is nevertheless unshaken in
her resolve to release Old Equestria from the shackles of its ignorance.
Her face, positioned directly in front of the rising sun, is awash in
shadow. It is possible to make out its features; the curve of a muzzle,
the soft glimmer of wet, shining eyes, the faint contour of a pair of
closed lips.

But, at a glance, it appears that her countenance is tastefully
invisible.

“Twilight, I have been informed that you’ve been involved in numerous
arguments with other sisters about the value of Maker technology.”

Your cheeks turn bright red.

“You are quite adamant that its mystifying nature is incomparable to
that of magic, and therefore it should not be viewed in the same light
by the Sisterhood.”

“I… yes. I know it’s a controversial opinion, but yes. I believe that if
somepony knows how to build such contraptions, then we, too, could
learn. Compare that to the Blight, which only comes about because magic
is inherently unexplainable.”

“We use the word ‘unexplainable’ far too often when describing magic, I
think. We see that aspect as the primary quality which we reject when
dealing with its associations. Of course, besides the inherent teachings
of Celestia about the dangers of the Blight, and its nature as an
affront against Mater Solis, as most tactfully put in the Litany Against
Magic. No, magic is not the enemy because it is unexplainable. Magic is
the enemy because it is not ours to use.”

The brush strokes individually are nothing; mere colors upon a canvas.
But together, such a beautiful image they create. One of longing,
humility, fear, passion, Truth.

“Our convent, and all convents across Equestron, are allowed by the
rules agreed upon by the Sisterhood two hundred years ago to employ
small Maker innovations as mere conveniences. We would not allow them to
automate our duties, nor would they fundamentally alter the methods by
which we serve our faith and Mater. They would simply make our lives
within the convent a tad easier.

"But, alas, then came the New Maker’s Handbook. An astounding discovery,
no doubt. Tomes upon ancient tomes left behind by a Maker society,
discovered in an archaeological dig in the Badlands, and instantly set
upon by decipherers to discover its meaning. Millions and millions of
advanced designs that vastly compounded upon those machines which
ponykind had already employed, and which rendered what had once been
formally taught to our species by the Makers entirely obsolete. With the
right materials, the proper precision of craftsmanship, and the research
into their mechanical ways necessary to comprehend the designs, any of
them could be built with our own hooves. It was undoubtedly the single
most important discovery of the millennium.”

The Matron sighs. She appears lost in the whorls of lily white oil paint
which constitute Celestia’s figure. You are lost as well, deeply
enamored by this familiar painting in a capacity that you never had been
as a filly, spending so much time with the Matron in this very office.

“Of course, the Sisterhood rejected it. These designs were too complex,
too unknowable. Surely at a certain level, the technologies of the
Makers were indistinguishable from the Blight? It was decided that the
rules laid down about the allowance of their inventions within the
convents of the Sisterhood would not apply to those designs discovered
in the New Maker’s Handbook.”

The sun’s rays, immaculately portrayed as shining arrows radiating from
the centerpoint of the entire piece. White gold paint, no different in
its composition than any of the other colors mixed to create the
painting, and yet it seems… something more. Something beautiful.

“I went along with their decision. In fact, I staunchly agreed with said
position. But one of the most difficult lessons I have ever learned, in
my advanced age, is that senescence is not an indicator of wisdom in all
things.”

“Matron, what are you talking about? You’re the wisest mare I’ve ever
known!”

“We cling to our devotion to a past that is all but forgotten all about
us. We, the old guard, those ancient enough to remember a time before
the New Maker’s Handbook, find peace and comfort in what we once knew to
be absolute. But those like you, the young, the unsullied, are imprinted
upon by our will, our truth.”

“Your Truth is the Truth of Mater Solis. You’re privy to Her word.”

“I am. But Her word is cryptic, and Her intentions are mysterious. I am
not a translator, Twilight, I am an interpreter. And as one Matron might
interpret the will of Mater one way, another might see things
differently, and alter what is written. My fault as a Matron, my
greatest flaw, so to speak, has become my blindness to the changing
world out there, and my inability to change along with it. As I agreed
with the law of the Sisterhood then, so too do I now. Even now, as my
most devoted disciple, she who I have always called my prodigy, she who
has pored over every word of every text in our library a thousand times,
she who studies far more intensely than any of her peers the word of
Celestia and her interpretation of the Truth, even as she *still*, in
spite of all this, advocates so strongly for the integration of New
Maker technology into our faith, I cannot bring myself to agree with
her. Twilight, this is the one issue which I simply cannot reconcile
with you.”

“I know that. And I’m sorry, Matron. I know I shouldn’t be starting
arguments with other sisters. But I can’t help but believe that what is
within the New Maker’s Handbook is the future of our faith. These
discoveries could very well bring us closer to Mater Solis, not push us
away as does the Blight! I… I cannot compromise on that. And I don’t
think my mind will ever change on the subject.”

“There’s no need for apologies, Twilight. Besides, you didn’t let me
finish.”

Celestia’s mane, an amalgam of color, muted shades of pink, silver,
scarlet, green. The colors of the sun, the colors of nature. All
represented by mere swashes on what was once white. That something so
powerful could come from the mind of an artist, and physically only from
the raw ingredients of his trade…

Canvas, oils, dyes…

Perhaps it was an expression of Mater’s magic. Not the Blight, not the
imitation, not the ultimate blasphemy. No, *real* magic, Her magic, what
was Hers alone, shared only with Celestia.

“I cannot reconcile my stance on New Maker tech with yours. However,
this is precisely why I want you to replace me when I pass on.”

“That… hardly makes sense, Matron. No offense.”

“None taken. To name as one’s successor somepony whose views on what is
unequivocally the most important question of our time are diametrically
opposed to one’s own would seem insane from a practical perspective. But
as I told you, my weakness is my inability to let go of a world where my
perspective was absolute, and dissention was nonexistent. Your peers
believe what I believe because it is what has been ingrained in their
minds through rigid study and my own ordinances. But you, among all of
them, are untainted by those teachings. Yes, I would call my own
instructions a taint, for they are incompatible with reality. I cannot
break from what I have believed my entire life, no matter how hard I
try. But you, Twilight Sparkle, can change the fate of this entire faith
with what you believe.”

“Matron… what you’re suggesting is that I should become the Matron
Celest of this convent solely to promote an idea which you yourself have
always vehemently opposed!”

“I’m suggesting that you give the faith no other choice. That you give
me no other choice. I am old, and I am blind. I have raised a prodigy,
and her flank is proof enough of that to me. I have my opinions, and you
have yours, but as it stands my word is the Truth of Mater Solis, and
yours is simply that of a disciple. Were you Matron, you could do what I
could not.”

“Even as Matron, I couldn’t hope to reverse a decision that affects all
the convents, all the monasteries, all the devout of the faith across
Equestron! Even that wouldn’t be enough!”

“Your words ring true, Twilight Sparkle. As Matron, you could not do
these things. But perhaps as a Supermatron…”

For the first time in what has felt like an hour, you rip your gaze from
the intricacies of the painting and look squarely into the grey eyes of
your mother.

“S-S-S-Superm-m-matron?”

“I have seen it in dreams. I have contacted five other Matrons Celests
of five other convents in five other cities, and they all have witnessed
the same Truth. There will be a Supermatron of the Faith within ten
years’ time, an acolyte who is all but an incarnation of Celestia
herself, with all her gifts and knowledge, all her magic, all her
strength, all her will. One who shall guide this faith into a new age.”

“There hasn’t been a Supermatron marked by the stars in four centuries!”

“Mater’s Truth is the only Truth. She has spoken to me, and all others.
The time is now. I can only imagine that the mare of which She speaks is
you. You, and you alone. My prodigy.”

“I… I don’t…”

“Twilight?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to pass out again.”

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-6.html"></span>

Chapter 6
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

You are Cherry Berry, and you are worried. Sister Twilight has been
missing all day!

After helping Sister Blossom recover her meditation blindfold from your
quarters in the Sun Tower, you expected to find Twilight already waiting
for you in the darkroom. But no such luck. The Matron Celest had called
her away from the rest of you earlier, after the study session had
concluded.

You found your meditation cycle somewhat perturbed, what with anxiously
waiting to hear her hoofsteps mark her arrival. When you removed your
blindfold, she was not there. When you entered the dining hall for lunch
with your sisters, she was not there. When you retired together to your
quarters for personal study and prayer, she was not there.

Now, departing those same quarters to attend Sister Tenderheart’s
afternoon congregation, descending the narrow stairs with Orange Swirl
before you and Blossom Delight behind, you are becoming increasingly
nervous.

“Sisters, I’m still concerned about Twilight’s whereabouts. Surely she
has not been with the Matron all this time?”

“She’s close with the Matron, you know that. They could very well be
lost in conversation as we speak, having missed the whole day.”

“Perhaps. Regardless, it’s unlike Twilight to shirk her daily
responsibilities for idle chit-chat. If she’s with the Matron still, I
can’t help but wonder about the importance of their conversation.”

“You think something big is about to happen to Twilight?”

“It couldn’t be *that*, if that’s what you two are thinking.” Orange
Swirl moves aside as she reaches the bottom of the staircase, letting
you and Blossom pass. “She’s far too young.”

“She studies more intensely every day. The Matron or Sister Freshleaf
shouldn’t take notice of that?”

“It isn’t her work ethic that matters, it’s her youth. It’s plain to see
what Twilight wants, but surely she can’t hope to ascend at such an age?
The Matron herself was 33 and already an instructor when she was
ascended, if I recall correctly. Meanwhile, Twilight is… well, our age.”

“And that should disqualify her from the honor? Age is no written factor
in becoming a Sister Solaris.”

“You’re correct, Blossom, but I simply can’t see it happening. And I
can’t imagine that Twilight could expect it to happen either. The basis
of this entire conversation is built on a presupposition of an event
that may or may not even be taking place.”

“I… do agree with Blossom in one regard. If anypony will ascend to the
position in any due course, it will be Twilight. The Matron has always
favored her.”

“That’s not fair, Orange. Twilight stands on her own merits.”

“Her merits are her studious nature, her immense devotion to Mater, her
wisdom beyond her years, and her willingness to take on any task without
question. Am I missing anything?”

“That about sums it up.”

“Indeed. But she is also too quick to judge her fellow sisters, despite
the fact that she holds some choice opinions that the Sisterhood at
large would find most unappealing if they were ever made aware of her
status. She’s shown signs of impulsiveness, she can be most
temperamental at times, and she lacks a yearning spirit.”

“I object to that last one. Is being focused on the good of the convent
rather than idly dreaming of life beyond these walls such a bad thing? I
do my fair share of yearning in private, but I see no reason that a lack
of such expression should be reprimanded. Really, it should be the
opposite.”

“You have to wonder, though, about a mare who has spent all her life
within these walls, yet shows no interest in exploring what lies beyond.
Never once has she applied for a mission, never has she asked questions
of those who have returned from their missions.”

“You’ve never applied for a mission either.”

“I’ve no ambition for Solarity. All I’m saying is, it’s unnatural to say
the least that—”

“Stay your tongue, Sister Orange Swirl!”

Your eyes widen, and you head jerkily swivels to take in the hard, stern
expression on Blossom’s face. She is usually so mild-mannered…

“I don’t know how you normally conduct yourself within task groups, but
to call somepony with whom you share your bedchambers ‘unnatural’ sounds
very rude to my ears!”

“I didn’t intend for it to sound that way, Blossom. My apologies.”

“There’s no sense in apologizing to me, Sister Orange. Say the same to
Twilight, wherever or whenever we may find her.”

“Blossom, I’m surprised you’re so quick to defend Sister Twilight when
she directed her own impulses towards you just this morning, at
breakfast.”

Blossom simply hardens her gaze, this time locking it squarely on you.

“We are all servants of Mater Solis. Twilight exerts her service in her
own way. We don’t agree on choice matters, but the faith isn’t about
dogma, not like those lecherous Exsilists on the borderlands we hear so
much about from the vendors. No, the faith is about the Truth, and the
Truth is interpretable. I could never see what Twilight sees, but
perhaps that only means that I lack the insight she has on those
matters.”

“Sister Blossom… your humility is admirable. As is your loyalty to a
friend.”

You smile at Blossom Delight. Her breathing slows, and she smiles
bashfully back.

“I don’t know what came over me just then, sisters. Nor can I pretend to
understand what Sister Twilight believes she knows, or what she wants to
know. But I’m certain that if this meeting entails what we think it
entails, Twilight could very well be ready, even at her age.”

Orange Swirl appears to ponder for a moment.

“Even if you’re right, Sister Blossom, it isn’t merit alone that grants
ascendance. In all likelihood, Twilight will have to partake in a
mission. She’ll have to journey into the Temple of the Eyes in
Crystallatia and train under the priests there. She’ll have to spend
months in self-isolation, developing a thesis.”

“None of those are requirements for ascension.”

“But they do bring favor.”

“Which Sister Twilight already has in spades with the Matron.”

“I won’t deign to know the Matron’s will, and her Truth is absolute as
the Truth of Mater. But from a mere pony perspective, it wouldn’t bode
well with the faith if the Matron Celest of this convent displayed what
could be interpreted as blatant favoritism. For Twilight’s status to be
accelerated down such a path at her age, she’ll need every advantage she
can get.”

“You’re saying she needs an excuse to be as worthy as she already is.”

“She needs several. And I remain skeptical of exactly how worthy she
really is, despite all the points Sister Blossom has made.”

There is a pause in the conversation. Having been lost in the
abstractions of discussing Twilight’s fate, imagining the places she
might go, the things she might be compelled to do, you suddenly realize
the three of you have walked almost half the distance to the Hall of
Sermons.

A buttressed archway passes over your head, and you take the time to
notice its intricacies.

Carved festoons, reliefs of garlands, twisting vines and sunflowers, the
long, narrow faces of nondescript disciples jutting from the edges. All
modeled by hoof, not by horn or any other means of artificial
assistance. The architecture of the convent truly is something to
behold, even with your narrow frame of reference.

All here bespeaks warmth, solace, an expression of the light of the sun,
a show of the Truth for its beauty. All around you, wherever you go, are
modest displays of true craftsmanship, devotion to the faith, and the
splendid quaintness which you had come to adore. Often, you sit quietly
within the walled Sun Garden, the light of Mater shining directly above,
the trees rustling in the breeze, and each time you do you find yourself
more and more thankful for what you have here.

You yearn, this is so, for what is beyond, but you always leave that
place contented and with a renewed sense of devotion. But in those
moments, as you trace the intricate patterns on the walls with your
eyes, as you delicately give each flower, each blade of grass its time
in the spotlight of your mind, so as not to spoil any one, your eyes
sometimes lock on what is in the distance.

And there, past the grisly black steel of the labor towers, past the
plain, brutal whites and greys of factory stacks and the vast plots of
tenements, intertwining and labyrinthine…

Beyond even the Undermaw, those treacherous slums where you came up as
an urchin and from which you were saved…

Past all of the materialistic flatness and the cold, inequine sheen of
the surrounding miles, was something beautiful and recognizable.
Something in the shape of the rainclouds, ever positioned over the basin
by unidentifiable machinery. Something in the tint of the southern sky,
always faintly darker and more saturated than the rest of what you could
see.

In this haven, and out beyond what surrounded you, in that general
direction, were the only places besides Mater Herself up above you could
ever even hope of gleaning Her Truth.

You are not and have never been ambitious for that taste, not like
Twilight at all. You barely even understand the feelings which own your
soul. But above all, you are aware in all the ways in which you know
that Sister Twilight Sparkle is ignorant.

If she can witness the light, you are privy to the dark. If she takes
for granted the revelry of nurturing in these convent halls, you know a
fair comparison. If she is fascinated by what lies beyond, and wishes
with all her heart to know more about what the Makers buried, left
forgotten, and which was uncovered and perverted into impossible
machines, then you are the opposite.

What you see in the world beyond is chaos and misery, for you see the
shapes moving, constructing, standing still, and you know what those
forms represent. Hardly anypony knows how they function, least of all
you. But you know, and have known how New Maker tech inflicts itself on
the sanctity of the soul. How it ravages one’s faith and decency, and
hides one from the light of Mater. You know because you were hidden for
so long, only to be found in a state of absolution. You had never seen
beauty the likes of which this place offered in its twin simplicity and
intricacy.

The stonework was both humble and extravagant, plain and glorious. Above
all, it had been modeled with intention, each archway, each wall, each
pillar chiseled out by the mind, body, and soul of a pony laborer. How
else could Her works be enacted?

“All I know is, I’d be dreadfully worried if Sister Twilight ventured
out there, alone, into Celestia knows what part of the world, without
any experience.”

Your feelings exactly. “My feelings exactly. I know only this city, and
the cruelty of which it is capable. Celestia knows what manner of
cruelty lies beyond its reach, now more than ever. For Sister Twilight,
somepony who has never left these halls, to become a missionary, to
attempt to convert those addicted to the Blight… I wouldn’t be able to
rest at night.”

“Fighting in the east. Terror in the west. The dark waters loom all
around us, and Naiads drown on a whim. Inner naiads most egregiously.”

”I don’t want to hear it!”

You turn. Blossom stands still behind you, a pained expression cast
downward. The lasting remembrances of past suffering has scalded her
mind.

“Blossom, what is it? What did we say?”

Blossom sniffles and struggles to catch her breath. She’s beginning to
cry.

“No, Blossom, don’t… we weren’t…”

“We weren’t speaking in absolutes. We don’t know why Sister Twilight is
with the Matron, or why she’s taken so long to return to us. We don’t
even know if she’d leave this convent if it was a matter of ascension.
We’re only speaking in hypotheticals.”

“It’s only that… you remember, don’t you, Cherry? My grandfather’s
stories, of what happens in the Outlands? The dangers he experienced,
the death and disease and misery…”

“Sister Blossom, first of all, it doesn’t suit you to stand here in the
middle of the hall and sob over nothing. Compose yourself in a manner
befitting a Sister of Solemnity. Second of all, we do not conduct
missions in the Outlands. Not on an official basis. So there is no
reason to fuss about Twilight’s fate in that regard.”

“Yes… yes, you’re right…”

Blossom blinks rapidly, catching the moisture around her eyes with her
long lashes, refusing to shed a tear. She whispers a prayer, perhaps the
Litany Against Darkness, before continuing.

“It’s only that the world has gotten rougher since then, everywhere. I
heard that the lev-rails connecting us to Unicronia are being sabotaged
by Exsilists. Bands of excoms from Saddle Arabia are pillaging on the
high roads and… oh, the violence I hear of! Gunneries and armies of
ponies raised from the waters of death and—”

“And myths and fairytales. Don’t you know it’s unwise to listen to the
tall tales of every fruit vendor you overhear conversing with the trade
sisters?”

“I can’t help but believe some of these things. After what my
grandfather told me, about his time abroad, away from the city, away
from safety, I can’t bear to even dream of Twilight, whose experience of
that world out there amounts to nearly nothing, going out there and
facing those horrors. Not just in the Outlands, within our own borders.
Horrors, all around us.”

“The light of Mater Solis will protect her.”

Orange Swirl takes Blossom by the hoof and leads her into a walk once
more. You follow close behind, taking notice of Orange’s sudden
serenity. You swear by the Solenoids that you see her left wing flutter
beneath her robe, for a brief instant, as if to wrap itself around
Blossom’s shivering figure before catching and retreating.

“If the Matron wills that Twilight shall go out there and face whatever
trials await her, be it tomorrow or ten years from now, however long it
takes for her to find it in herself to ascend, the Matron does so with
purpose. She knows that challenge herself, she’s lived it herself, and
she would never send Twilight or any of us away from this place if it
meant endangering us.”

“Right… yes you’re right. The Matron’s Truth is the Truth of Mater
Solis, blessed be Her countenance which shines upon Her daughters and
Her sons…”

“Good. As I said, Blossom Delight, compose yourself, and come. We’ll
have marks from Sister Tenderheart if we’re late for her congregation.”

There is tenderness beneath Orange Swirl’s defiant pegasus nature. This
much you know to be true. Wither to wither, the three of you set off at
a trot towards the Chapel of the Sunset, towards the peace and
enlightenment of a long reading from the Books of the Sun.

As you cross an intersection of two immaculate stone halls, for an
instant in the corner of your eye, you swear you see the flash of a
purple mane galloping past beyond a decorated archway. Before you can
turn your head, it’s gone. When your nerves at last react to your
senses, and your head twists in the direction of what you thought you
saw, you see only stone faces staring back at you from above.

The faces of the faith, humble and passionate. The Syncresis in what you
feel in this moment is immaculate. Where Twilight has gone no longer
matters. What only matters is where she is going to go.

Archways, vines, gardens, the sky you share with heathens and the naiad
worshippers of a faraway land.

All based on hearsay, of course. All based on presupposition. It could
all be a big nothing, in the end.

None of it could matter at all.

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-7.html"></span>

Chapter 7
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

Find the Truth. See through it. Make it yours.

You lock the wooden door behind you, panting as you struggle to catch
your breath. You just practically galloped across the entire grounds of
the convent back here, back where you belong.

You are Twilight Sparkle again.

And everything you knew to be true is decomposing all around you. Great
swirling black things dance in the darkness of this place, afterimages
of sensations you are trying in vain to repress. You feel dehydrated…

But you dare not open that door again, if only because it would ruin the
small sense of comfort you feel in this moment. You dare not quench your
thirst to satisfy a greater indulgence. Think, Twilight, think.

Remember why you’re here, and what transpired to make you break
tradition and come here without permission.

The Matron gave you the day to ruminate on the design she had laid out
so carefully for you, so at the very least you don’t have to worry about
missing congregation. Your sisters are probably worried sick about you
right now, but as far as you’re concerned that’s the least of your
worries.

As your heartrate slows, your breathing takes on a more natural tempo,
and you cease your struggle for air. In your youth, you used to
hyperventilate in stressful situations, which were most frequent for you
considering your worrisome temperament in those days. You retain that
temperament to some extent now, but the Matron saw to it then that you
received formal training in meditative breathing cycles to calm your
spirits.

Speaking of your heartbeat, you feel each pulse rippling through your
chest; though it has slowed, it continues to pound like a hammer on an
anvil, as though it could explode from your body at any moment. You do
not feel calm, you do not feel powerful, you are prostrate before Mater
and yet it seems now that no amount of imparted divine wisdom could lift
this impervious weight which burdens you.

Calm down… feel the beat of your heart… drink in the light of Her
countenance…

Light.

You are still sitting on the floor, back to the door which you threw
shut behind you, in pitch darkness.

Find the Truth. See through it. Make it yours.

Feeling the wall next to you with your left hoof, you snake your touch
slowly upwards, patting and exploring its granite surface until finally
finding your mark. You flip the insulated rubber switch, and at once the
room before you is flooded with electric light from above.

Everything comes into focus as your squinting eyes adjust. Piles of
borrowed texts are strewn about the edges of the room, their illuminated
covers glinting in the artificial glare. An oak writing desk, its
surface almost entirely invisible from the clutter of assorted trinkets
which sit upon it, stretches across the left wall, seeming to take up
almost a third of the space in this room.

On the opposite wall, a small wood-frame cot, its burgundy sheets neatly
made, fills out the rest of the space, leaving a small gap of walking
space about a pony’s width and a half across between its edge and the
deskchair. On top of the sole dresser in this chamber sits a small
sewing kit, with needles and swatches of fabric perched in haphazard
piles within a wood box. The remaining space to your left, between the
front edge of the desk and the back wall of the room, a prostration mat
is laid out for morning and evening personal worship.

Gently, you take in one last deep breath, and walk over to the mat. You
bow, haunches above your head, front legs outstretched, before the
shining golden sun shrine positioned within an outcropping in the wall.
Closing your eyes and lowering your head, you whisper, barely audible
even to your own ears in the silence of this place.

“Blessed Mater Solis, You whose trust has been placed in my spirit, You
who commands my heart, You whose word is sacrosanct and whose Truth is
almighty, forgive my transgression by entering this place in my time of
great anguish. I know it is not your wish or the wish of my elders to be
present within these quarters while I fulfill my duties this month as an
officiant of the Breaking of Day and as a cook of the morning broth. I
realize that I must flagellate myself with the hide of the boar for
breaking the sacred promise I made to this Sisterhood, and to You. And
yet…”

You choke up, tears flowing freely now. Your heart has sped up again,
pounding like a great engine, circulating that precious life through
your body. Your stress refuses to subside, and yet you must carry on.
She must know what you know.

That is Syncresis.

“I need this place. I need to be here, right now. I’ve been issued a
challenge, by You, and by the Matron. It is something I do not know if I
can accomplish. I don’t even know how to begin accomplishing that. My
trust in your will is absolute; this is immutable. I am your humble
servant and the idle pawn of your concerns. Mater, why have You brought
this challenge to me? Where am I to go in order to best serve You? What
might I do in order to appease your Truth? I cannot answer any of these
questions right now, and I cannot expect that You might, either. At
least, not to me. This is why I need to be in this room, though it is
not my place to be here during this month. Your burden is my
fallibility. Amen.”

As you mutter a final libation under your breath, you unbend your back
and approach the shrine directly. Taking the sacred lighter in hoof, you
ignite the oils within with a touch and hold its bronzed tip to the wick
protruding from the head of the shrine statue. This holy object can be
found in the private chambers of every sister in every convent across
the continent, though its form varies from pony to pony.

Yours is modeled after Celestia herself, a small golden alicorn figure
facing upwards and encircled by the ringed outline of a burning sun. Her
crown is filled with red wax, and from the wax the wick protrudes. You
allow the wick to burn down about a centimeter while reciting the Litany
of Praise, then extinguish it with the tin snuffer placed lengthwise
behind the shrine. Setting down all your implements, you step off the
prayer mat and turn around, allowing your familiar surroundings to stir
your emotions for a brief while.

Here, in your own private quarters, away from the dormitory which you
share with your fellow dawnguard, you might safely ruminate on the task
at hoof.

Find the Truth. See through it. Make it yours.

The words are etched into the deepest crevice of your mind, as though
written there by the pen of some passionate Fury.

You fear… no, you *know* that you will soon hear them in dreams to come.
They were the words of the Matron, her last words to you before she
closed those great oak chamber doors before you. You were left alone
there, in the middle of a cold stone corridor, helpless to grasp what
she meant by those words. Helpless to prevent those rippling waves of
predestiny from submerging your hooves, melding them to a concrete path.

This path was inevitable for you; this much you realize. You are, and
have always been, the Matron’s chosen prodigy, born of the convent,
untainted by the Blight of magic. If this is what she has laid out for
your future, then so be it. You are hers to command, for her voice is as
much Truth as Celestia’s herself.

A greater Truth, however, exists, that to which you have just appealed.
You are forbidden from entering this place during this month, and
consequently from laying eye or hoof upon your personal shrine figure.

Yet it is your one tangible line to Mater, and your prayer was more a
plea than a show of admiration. You need guidance in this moment,
guidance that not even the Matron cannot offer. You need divine
guidance…

No.

You shudder as you force the blasphemous thoughts from your mind. The
Naiads are tricksters bent on corrupting the soul, deluding it from
knowing its true place in the wheel of fate. You are not fit at all to
pass judgment on what you *need* from Mater Solis. It is what She needs
from you which is tantamount. But, in order to glean that, you must
decipher that puzzling litany which the Matron planted in your memory.

Find the Truth.

This is obvious, self-evident even. To become a Matron Celest, one must
enable oneself to see Her Truth in the fullness of its glory. However,
you had almost expected that the Matron’s Sight was something she could
bestow on another when the time came, not something you had to find
yourself.

But, of course, that would be too simple.

“Too simple… too simple…”

You retrieve one of your lengthier tomes from a stack in the corner and
idly flip through its pages as you think.

Find the Truth.

A simple request, yet the way to fulfilling it is shrouded in mystery,
seemingly impossible to discover on one’s own. For all you know, you
might have to circumnavigate the earth to find the Truth. Or perhaps you
need not ever leave this room. Either way, if the Matron thinks you
capable, you can do nothing but try to surpass her expectations.

See through it.

Now, this epithet was the most bewildering to your ears of the three
upon first hearing it. By the time the fragmented words had collapsed
into a complete thought within your distracted mind, you almost saw fit
to ward off the temptation of blasphemy right there in the middle of the
hallway. How can one possibly see through the Truth? That which trumps
all, which is wisdom divine in origin, the prodigious intent of Mater
Solis, her word and her will and her countenance?

What could it possibly mean to “see through” that which is impermeable,
absolute? The implication eludes you. For now, that is. It is your hope
that, in the process of fulfilling the first step of this transition,
the shape of the second might be illuminated.

“The form of an abstract concept is difficult for the mind to properly
discern. For a pony to truly understand something which is not tangible,
or can only be defined by seemingly arbitrary parameters, they must…”

You stop.

What are you saying?

You narrow your eyes and scrunch your muzzle as you search your
surroundings for a clue. At once your eyes come to rest upon the text of
the open book before you, the source of your thoughtless rambling. You
close the book on your hoof to read the cover.

*“The Fundamentals of The Laws of Electricity and Magnetism as
Prescribed by The Elaborations of the Makers.”*  
*Written 459 by Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes*  
*Translated 778 from Prench*

The page you had been reading was part of the introduction. It’s been
years since you read this beast of a text through. You had asked the
Matron to order it for you specially when, at the age of about twelve,
you were finally granted access to the bell tower.

Seeing all those clumps of wires and bits of metal and timing mechanisms
strewn about the floor space in that highest of chambers made you
question how such an elaborate thing could be built by pony hooves. Of
course, the machines were all designed by the Makers in some capacity,
but ponies had their hoof in perfecting, retrofitting, manufacturing,
and making more accessible each of those meticulously crafted
components.

You had spent long nights poring over every detail of this book when you
had a break from studying the word of Celestia. Its contents were hardly
intensive, seeing as how at such a young age you could grasp most of
what was presented therein. But to know that such invisible forces not
only exist, but are measurable, quantifiable, exploitable?

That was what fascinated you to no end.

All that ponykind has built in the last thousand years, all their
technological advancements, all the marvels that seem primitive in this
day and age, but which were tantamount to the most costly and decadent
magic in ancient times.

All of it came from the teachings and insights that the Makers provided
them before their vanishment.

It is a common misconception, you’ve heard, for the laymen of the faith
to see impunity in the Makers’ unknown fate. Some despise them for the
manner in which they treated the Prophetess while loving what they’ve
built. But you and those who properly study the Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth
Books of the Sun know better.

Celestia was not a prophetess then, when she was cast out. Then, she was
merely the vessel of a soul which had yet to be replaced with the
enlightenment of Truth. Then, she was a princess whose hubris became her
undoing. It was by direct consequence of her walk in the desert, which
itself was a result of the Makers’ retaliation upon her great city in
the mountains, that she became entranced with the light of Mater Solis.
The Makers were the instruments of her ascension, and for their part in
her ultimate fate they were properly to be praised, not abhorred.

You clear your head and return to the text you were reading. Something
in there sounded important to the thought at hoof.

“Let’s see…”

There it is.

“For a pony to truly understand something which is not tangible, or can
only be defined by seemingly arbitrary parameters, they must visualize
this thing in the form of something familiar. Concepts herein will
follow this formula: if somepony has no direct experience with the
effects of electromagnetism besides their roles in complex mechanical
structures such as electric generators, power lines, or oscillatory
engines, then they will hardly find it easy to grasp the intangible
explanations for the forces underlying those machines. By opening this
first chapter of this lengthy volume, you have effectively entered a new
world where the laws of the universe may seem to get much more
complicated than you might expect. But rest assured that these inner
truths of the “miracles” of the Makers have been a part of our world all
along.”

It was as relevant here as it was when you first read it. When you first
experienced the way that this knowledge seemed to bring you closer to
Mater than ever.

See through it.

That was the second request, and it seems all but unfulfillable. An
unquantifiable abstract, a meaningless phrase which held nothing but
contradiction and blasphemy under scrutiny. But Her Truth is already a
part of you, this you know as well as any sister in any convent. You
must only guide your own spirit down that path to recognize it within
you.

Visualize the Truth.

Perceive it as nopony else can, not without the knowledge and the skills
which you possess. Eventually, you may find the intangible thing you
seek.

Make it yours.

The final tenet of the Matron’s mission statement, and seemingly the
easiest to comprehend.

You shut the book and lay it back down in the stack by your desk.
Yawning, you cross the mid-space and stretch out onto your cot. The feel
of its sheets is different from that of those in the Sun Tower quarters.
But perhaps it is only the feeling of solitude which defines them
differently. You’ve certainly gotten used to having roommates in this
short period of time.

Needless to say, you shouldn’t feel so tired at this hour. But it can’t
be helped; your mind has already exhausted its capacity for today. So
much strangeness, so many revelations.

You’re lost in the sea, drowning, tempting the Naiads to pull you under
and make you suffer the extent of your own hubris.

You believed you could take on the responsibilities of a Sister Solaris
at your age, and now fate has seen fit to punish you for such
indiscretions by heaping more responsibilities onto your withers than
you ever thought imaginable. Nevertheless, what the Matron wills for
your future shall be the duty which you carry out until the end of your
days. If she thinks you capable of taking on her connection with the
Divine Mother, then you will make her responsibilities your own.

Make it yours.

The Truth, that which is spoken to the Matrons of the earth and which
powers their resolve, is given through a higher form of Syncresis. Your
Syncresis is simply what you share with Mater as an ordinary mare of the
faith.

“What is me, is me. And what is You, is You. But what is mine and You is
all that I see and think and feel.”

The Litany of Sensation. Mater is all-seeing, all-knowing. She sees
through the eyes of all stallions and mares of the world, and adopts
their minds as constituents of a greater consciousness. She is separate
from you, no doubt, but on a more transient level you are but a piece of
Her. To make Her Truth your own, and to complete the cycle of ascension,
it shall be necessary to understand Syncresis on its most primal level.

You have studying to do.

And more importantly than that, introspection. You close your eyes and
wonder for your future. Will the Matron send you away from this convent?
Does your destined path lie beyond the borders of this city? Of
Canterium? You have never even left this convent before, not even once.

No.

She will not force you from this place, and of that you are certain. If
it is necessary, you shall leave this place of your own accord. If the
call of Mater’s will, and the enaction of your ascension, requires you
to go out into unknown lands, to bare your body and soul against the
darkness of the Blight, then you are more than ready.

The boxed bells at the center of your back wall softly ring eighteen
times. The little clock you built two years ago, its tiny metal frame
exploding with gears and tangled, colorful wires, follows suit.

Splayed out on your soft, soft mattress, head resting against the
firmness of your pillow, you fall into the swirling menagerie of sleep.

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

<span id="chapter-8.html"></span>

Chapter 8
=========

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>

“How now, Sister Twilight Sparkle, whisperer in the dark?”

“A-are you Mater Solis?”

“I am of her ilk. I come of her light, reflected upon my countenance,
beamed to your eyes so that Her brilliance may be comprehensible to
you.”

“An angel, then?”

“My time here is short. I am a bearer of questions, and a conqueror of
the fears which plague your spirit. You dream, Sister Twilight Sparkle,
and your mind is full of shadow and uncertainty. The load you carry is
tall and takes a frightful shape from a certain perspective.”

“The Matron Celest expects so much from my future. My ambition is
clouded by something intangible, and the nature of all of this is so
unclear. My horn… oh, it aches…”

“It is encumbered. Speak now of your ambition, and the path down which
it should guide you.”

“I thought that’s why you’re here. To deliver that knowledge unto me. I
only know the words the Matron spoke to me, nothing more. I know a
riddle that’s impossible to solve on my own. I need guidance, but I
don’t know where I might find it.”

“I am no shepherd, nor have I futuresight. My role is that of the
interrogator, and the will of our Goddess shall be extracted from your
own mind.”

“How can you say that? I don’t know the first thing about being a
Matron! Or a Sister Solaris, for that matter! And for her to say, in
such absolute terms, that I’m predestined to be something even greater
than that?”

“Walk up the stairs and join me on this landing. I shall whisper my next
question in your ear.”

“The stairs are invisible. I don’t see the first step.”

“The stairs are plain to me. You are blind not to see them.”

“The only Matron I know is blind. Oh, blasphemy.”

“There is no blasphemy in this place, for you are not right of mind. You
suffer no consequences from the basal instincts your animalistic self
encourages in you. Yes, she is blind, as her eyes do not see. But her
sight is all too clear. The Truth is clear in her mind.”

“I’m coming. No, it’s slippery. I’m going to fall. I can’t bear to come
any further.”

“You are afraid of falling?”

“The fall is too long. Look below me. That void, that emptiness. I’ll
fall forever if I slip over this edge.”

“You shall wake up eventually. You may fall for hours, but your mind
shall know when it is time to leave this place.”

“No, no. It’s too far. It’s too long. I c-can’t come any closer.”

“Then there you shall remain. You cannot see the stairs; you cannot walk
forward. You are blind, you are paralyzed, what else does not function
in your body?”

“My ears. I can barely hear you. Are you whispering now?”

“I shall whisper when you come close enough to hear my question. Now, I
am screaming as loudly as I can.”

“It’s so quiet. I… I’m going deaf.”

“Walk. I command you to walk. Mater Solis commands me to command you.
Her light shines on you through me.”

“You don’t look like an angel. Angels are solenoidal, they’re coils of
burning light. Great hollow pillars, miles high, with thousands of eyes
which see all things.”

“I see all of you. I am present in this world you have constructed.
Everything which happens here, happens because you will it. If you
falter, if you refuse to face this fear of yours, it shall vanish, and
you shall awaken having learned nothing.”

“I’m walking. I can hear you more clearly now. I’m walking towards you.
The trench is looking shallower now.”

“The trench was once a void. Now its bottom is visible?”

“Yes. There are cracks in it, yellow, burning cracks. And water above
that. There are great snaking forms swimming inside it. I think
they’re—”

“They are what you fear. Inner naiads. The most dangerous kind. You are
exposed in this place to monstrous generalizations, but you see what you
wish to see. What are their true forms?”

“Failure. And, neglect, I think. Why is Sister Orange Swirl down there?
Why is she riding one?”

“She isn’t, anymore. Look again. She’s falling off. She’s sinking into
the crevice.”

“She relied on it to carry her. She relied on me to pull her out. Now
she’s gone.”

“Does it matter that much to you? Are you going to abandon your walk?”

“No. I’m almost there. I won’t slip and fall. My hooves are spiders.
They have tiny legs. They’re carrying me across the burning grease.”

“It’s grease that makes you slip?”

“Grease from a fire. There was a fire here, not too long ago. Something
died in this place, and something else burned it.”

“Where did it go?”

“To the Sun Garden.”

“Where did it go?”

“It went nowhere. It turned to ash. It didn’t believe.”

“Do you believe?”

“More than anypony. I believe what is true. I know nothing else.”

“You’ve arrived.”

“Yes, I have. I crossed your bridge. I ascended your invisible stairs.
Now, ask your question, I beseech thee. Lean in close, so that I might
hear your quiet voice.”

“Where is the Truth?”

“It’s inside me. As are all of Her words.”

“From whence did Her words come?”

“The Prophetess. She bore them on her back, until they were too much to
bear. She cast out the Kings from her home, and she slaughtered those
who didn’t believe in her command.”

“Is that last part really true?”

“No. It’s what I thought would be the rational choice, once. I don’t
anymore. It was a filly’s simplification of a complex tale.”

“She was not infallible?”

“She was greater than any of us. Her word was Truth.”

“How can you find that Truth?”

“By retracing her hoofsteps. By going where she was compelled to go.”

“Is her compulsion your own?”

“Is that not Syncresis?”

“It is my duty to ask questions, and yours to answer.”

“You’re right. I deeply apologize. Syncresis is our unity, through deed
and through experience. Her compulsion was what she felt was right in
the moment. She wasn’t guided by Mater after she was cast out of her
temple. She simply walked into the Badlands, ready to die.”

“To die?”

“To listen. Her ears were open. And yes, I know what you’re going to
ask. Her eyes were open, too. She was not motionless. She laid down only
to sleep on that boiling rock. It was never her wish to pass before her
time. I’ve been a hypocrite. I… I don’t know where to go, even when I
have every route to take.”

“Compulsion is the greatest motivator, Sister Twilight Sparkle. Without
it, your kind would never have made what it has made. What is your
compulsion?”

“To leave. There is no doubt in my mind. I need to go and find out what
it takes to follow this path.”

“By the time you discover that, your path will already have ended.”

“Then the path is the discovery. It isn’t hypocritical to say so.”

“She let those innocent ponies drown. She let the flood come over the
rocks. She listened to that old stallion.”

“I thought Mater shone through you. She knew what was best in that
place.”

“And now the soil is fertile. Great machines rise from that valley,
machines which sway, and cut, and turn in the wind. There are trees
there too, but they are slaves, born to die. They are fertilized by
death. A path is open to you. I will not compel you to take it.”

“I’ll take it anyway.”

“Will you retrace the hoofsteps of the Prophetess?”

“In a certain way. I won’t be cast out of this place. I’ll go of my own
volition. Even if everypony here tries to stop me, they won’t have the
power. I’ll force my way through them.”

“A solemn proposal.”

“I am a Sister of Solemnity.”

“Go, then, where machines toil. Go beyond the mountain. That is the
first step. Do you see it?”

“I have eyes. I am not blind. It is tangible now. I’m visualizing it
now. Oh, there’s something beautiful caught in my eye. I can’t get it
out. It’s growing. It’s stuck in my lashes. It’s drying them out. It’s
turning ugly. Help me, please!”

“You’re still thirsty. Sister Twilight Sparkle. My advice? Stay
hydrated.”

You slip. You fall. There is water everywhere.

You drink it all in. It tastes like iron.

They encircle you. You’re gone.

Gone.

gone.

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>
<a href="https://hackmd.io/@barney/SkoeUkLhq">Chapters 9-13</a>