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title: The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 9-13
tags: [The Swirling Menagerie]

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# The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 9-13
###### tags: `The Swirling Menagerie`
Chapter 9
=========

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

“GonegonegonegonegoooaaaAAGGAAAAAAHHAHAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Twilight? Twilight!”

You are screaming. Why are you screaming?

You had a terrible vision.

A… crevice? And a conversation? It was all just a dream.

But, then, you think you already knew that. The bells begin to ring
again at a rapid tempo. You count the strikes by twos. Two, four, six,
eight, ten—

“Twilight! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Why are you in your
quarters? Why are you screaming?”

“Twilight, please let us in!”

Twelve, fourteen, sixteen—

“Twilight? Sisters, she stopped screaming. Do you think she’s hurt?”

“If she injured herself, then one of us needs to summon Sister Redheart.
I don’t think the sanctity of Twilight’s quarters should duly prevent us
from helping her.”

“Of course not. We should be pragmatic in situations like—”

“TWILIIIGHT! ANSWER US, PLEASE! OPEN THE DOOR!”

Nineteen strikes. You slept for a whole hour. It only felt like a few
minutes…

You’ve missed dinner.

*BOOOOOOM.*

You nearly leap out of your cot as a penetrating noise breaches your
chamber. Only now do you notice the furious knocking at your door. Your
left front hoof has fallen asleep, having been crushed beneath the
weight of your head for so long. You shake away the invisible ants
crawling beneath your skin.

The knocking didn’t make the sound you just heard. You already know who
is out there, and they seem to be getting more frantic by the second.

Sight, sound, movement.

“Stay hydrated?”

Now that you mention it, you realize you were thirsty when you entered
this room. You haven’t quenched that thirst all this time, and now your
head is light and your lips are dry and your throat is begging for
fluids.

“Twilight? Please, open the door.”

“She could be unconscious. I’m going to get Sister Redheart. If I can’t
find the Matron and I can’t get the key to this door, I’m going to kick
it down.”

“NO!”

Silence.

They heard that, at the very least.

Clumsily, carelessly, you remove yourself from your bedding, rolling
onto the hard stone floor. You are reminded of Orange Swirl’s daily
morning routine, and her inability to rise at the proper time. Now it is
the evening; the sun is about to set, and you are even more sluggish
than she.

Picking yourself back up, you limp towards the door, your hoof still not
entirely rid of the crawling sensation. Something wet is running down
your jaw. Using your right hoof, you wipe it away and examine it.

Blood.

Bloodbloodblood*bloooood*.

You almost shriek before your panicked, roaming eyes come to rest on the
sun statue within the shrine outcropping. It reminds you of the Matron’s
warmth. Her placidity overcomes all adversity, and when she is stressed
by the toils of her exalted position, she simply relaxes, and breathes.

You know the way she breathes. It is all you can do now.

The superior part of your brain, the aspect which is logical and finds
solutions to problems which are not inherently obvious to the deeper
panic, but which are ultimately correct, commands you to breathe in that
fashion.

Your fear of blood subsides as the oxygen enters your body. You surmise
that you must have bitten your lower lip in your sleep, somehow. The
taste of blood still lingers faintly within your mouth. It tastes like
iron.

“Give me a moment, sisters. I’m coming to the door.”

Thirsty. You are so, so thirsty.

When at last you make your way to the oak chamber door at the far side
of the room, you pause for a moment longer than you should. Your friends
are worried about your safety, and you must heed their call. Yet,
listless as you are now, your mind is racing as you mull over the
minutiae of what you can bear to remember from your vision.

Yes, a vision. Not a dream, but an epiphany, an encounter with a servant
on high of Mater Solis.

In the ordinary dreams of a pony, there are only random flashes of
disconnected events, the brain surging and fluctuating and attempting to
piece together the circumstances of the day. This was something
stranger, something more lucid and more powerful.

A crevice, a conversation. Sight, sound, movement. Snaking things,
Orange Swirl falling into a crack. Stay hydrated. Falling into the
depths. The taste of iron lingering in the back of your throat as you…
You need to write all this down somewhere.

For now, you allow the elaborate tapestry of disjointed metaphors to
swirl around in your mind. You will not forget any one of them. The door
creaks on its hinges as you gently pull it open with your now refreshed
left hoof. You don’t even remember placing it on the knob.

“Twilight?”

Standing outside the threshold to your chamber are Orange Swirl, Blossom
Delight, and Cherry Berry. Worry lines are drawn across their faces, as
though by a thin pencil.

*BOOOOOM.*

There it is again. You’re less frightened by it now, but nevertheless
you cringe backwards and your muscles tense up.

“Wh-what was that?”

“Thunder. It’s pouring out there like I’ve never seen before. You’re
hoarse, Sister Twilight.”

“I just woke up, Sister Orange Swirl. Would you three like to come in?”

Orange Swirl grimaces. “Twilight, I won’t pretend to know how you’ve
spent your day or the feelings that implies, but I feel I must remind
you that not even you are meant to be in your private quarters this
month, while you reside in the Sun Tower for dawnguard duties. Much less
us. We’ll have to decline.”

“I expected that response.”

Blossom Delight pipes up from behind. “We were worried about you,
Twilight. We thought you’d been with the Matron all day. The last time
we saw you was at the close of the morning lesson. What have you been
doing all day?”

“I was with the Matron for most of this time. I only came here an hour
ago for reasons I cannot explain to you right now. Worry not, sisters,
I’ve been excused formally from today’s activities. Nothing undue will
happen to me.”

“What about what’s due? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We only
just happened to pass by your quarters after dinner when Cherry
suggested you might be within, and then we heard a cry echo out. We’ve
been worried, sister. Please, tell us why you injure us so.”

“Injure you? Orange Swirl, rest assured that this business has nothing
to do with you three. It’s all on me. Everything is on me.”

“What do you mean?”

Cherry Berry’s voluminous blonde mane tufts out of her scarlet shroud,
barely contained. So too, it would seem, is her concern.

“Sisters, there is nothing more I can tell you without increasing your
worries. I’m fine. I am sorry that I had no way to tell you where I was
all day, but now you know I was with the Matron, and there is nothing
else out of place.”

“She’s going to ascend you, isn’t she?”

Ascend.

Yes, ascend!

In another sense of the term, that is. You already feel ascended, as
though you’ve tasted the Truth and become privy to all its glory. Your
will is Her will, your promise is the promise of Vestal Celestia, chaste
and pure. The spring Sun is the most beautiful, you’ve always conceded…

The blood, it tasted like iron. As did the depths… no, the Depths,
capital “D”, the hellscape where sunlight cannot breach those black and
murky waters, where Naiads roam to latch on to your hooves and your
mouth and bind you and sink you so that you may never see Her beauty
again. You are thirsty. Yet you appall the water.

Thunder cracks from lightning strikes in the not-so-distance ring out in
echoed fervor through these hollow halls, an indicator of a downpour. If
you could see it, it would appear as golden stripes in a pitch-black,
stormy sky, and if you looked closely enough, and squinted your eyes,
they could look as though one could walk right into them.

Like tears in the fabric of cold reality. You would be gone from this
place. You would see a different kind of light, just not Hers.

No!

“No! I… I’m not to be ascended. I will not become a Sister Solaris.
Those are the Matron’s words, and I will abide them.”

Your already-strained voice chokes up as you bleat out your half-truth.
A nervous grimace spreads across your face. They look unconvinced. They
are staring through your eyes into the back of your head.

Finally, after a few moments, Cherry Berry speaks.

“Right then, Sister Twilight. If there’s nothing else bothering you,
then we won’t pressure you any further. But I hope you know that as your
peers we care deeply about your state of mind.”

“Agreed. The light of Mater shines on all of us in trying times, and
when one sister falters and faces dark times, we will not hesitate to
help her up again.”

That was Orange Swirl. She fell into the crack; you watched her. Off the
slippery back of a Naiad she tumbled into a gleaming abyss, and then she
was gone.

How can…?

This is real. What you see, and what you think, and what you feel, is
Hers and yours together. Your senses cannot betray you when you name
them in confidence and proclaim outright that you are sane.

Still, it all felt so real. Even now, you continue to remember more and
more details about it. Bits of phrases, your shifting, abstract
surroundings, the form and color of the angelic figure with whom you
conversed. Despite how desperately you wish to push it out of your mind
for the time being and focus on the real world, you know you cannot take
that risk.

A pony’s memory of their dreams is fleeting and limited, and if you
allow the fine elements of this vision to escape you now, you may never
find them again. The Truth which was granted to you would be lost, and
you will have failed before you even began.

Ever so carefully, you deliberately enter a semi-meditative state,
breathing deeply and softly, allowing the machinations of your mind to
fill a subconscious space in your head. There, the words you speak to
yourself to translate the emotions you felt in that dream shall be
written, and through this method you will not forget the hard facts of
what you witnessed. The essence of that beauty which caught your eye
shall be lost, but this, you have already conceded, is an inevitability.
You remain conscious, able to walk and converse, but your epiphany is
safe. You must deliver what you witnessed to the Matron Celest at the
soonest possible opportunity.

For now, however, there is a more immediately pressing matter. You take
small steps through the threshold to your quarters and out into the
stone dormitory hall. To your left and right, identical oak doors
stretch to the ends of the hall, the entrances to other private
quarters. You choose to walk left, and your sisters follow, their faces
contorted in concern and confusion.

“Come, sisters. Let us return to the Sun Tower. We’ve lingered here too
long already.”

Blossom’s small voice rings out in the long hall.

“Can you at least tell us why you were screaming in there? I’ve never
heard somepony cry out so feverishly!”

You sigh. “I had a bad dream, that’s all. I thought I was falling, and
it must have startled me awake.”

“You were asleep in there? At this hour?”

“Yes, Blossom, I was asleep! I have had a very long day, and I thought I
might find comfort in the confines of my own quarters for just a moment,
just ONE MOMENT! By the sun and the stars, do you have any more
pertinent questions you’d like to ask me?!”

That was much too loud. You regret lashing out at her instantly. But
before you can apologize, Orange Swirl launches at you.

“You think we haven’t had a long day too, Sister Twilight? We’ve been
performing all the sacred duties that we are expected to perform in the
proper sequence, with the proper reverence and sentiment, and we’ve been
performing them without you, all while worrying about your safety and
your whereabouts. Celestia above, have you any idea how selfishly you’re
behaving right now?”

You don’t know how to answer that question. For moments after, you
barely register its meaning. All your mind can concentrate on is the
spiraling motion conjured by swimming beasts, tempting you to join them
in their murky waters.

You think about your tumble, following that other pony into the abyss.
Which one was it?

It had to be one of your sisters; they say nopony you’ve never met can
appear in a dream. But, and you must remind yourself yet again, this was
no ordinary dream. Swirling into a glistening pit, a beautiful
temptation, falling away from Mater Solis into a brighter light.

One that was comforting and warm…

And wet. So, so wet.

“Well? Can you not even conjure a response, Sister Twilight?”

“Selfish.”

“What?”

“You’re really calling me selfish for trying to keep what I’ve seen out
of your ken?”

Orange Swirl snorts, raising a hoof and an eyebrow.

“And what, pray tell, are you keeping? What have you seen that none of
us could have? Where have you ever gazed that nopony else has gazed
before you? You, who are bound to this convent and will never leave its
walls of your own accord?”

Silence once more, but for the patter of rain on the granite siding
outside. She cannot know what you know. Even a glimpse of that Truth,
the meaning of which you could not even dream of comprehending right
now, would shake her and your other sisters.

“Sister Orange, you’re being harsh.”

“Cherry Berry, need I remind you how crassly Twilight spoke to you and
Blossom Delight this very morning? How she scolded you for merely
following the word of the Matron Onus, that new Maker tech should not be
permitted in these halls?”

“I remember you forgiving her for it. I remember Mater witnessing that
forgiveness. This isn’t necessary, what you’re doing right now.”

“Twilight… yes, I forgave you then. Mater forgive me, it was wrong to
bring it up now. But you have to understand—”

“I understand. I understand perfectly.”

It’s a lie.

You understand nothing of what you saw. Your meditative breathing fails
you for a single instant, and the pace of your mind’s toils is thrown
out of balance.

The epiphany moves to the forefront of your thinking, and you see
clearly all the details you’d thought forgotten. Pieces of a great
puzzle, interlocking with one another, forming a tiny morsel of what
you’re meant to seek.

You gasp as the reality of it all sets in. Your sisters are looking at
you, looking uncertain as to whether they should approach you or move
away.

*BOOOOOOOOM-CHAKKKKKK.*

You shrink from the sudden loudness that has breached the silence.
Lightning, a spark of electricity. A great capacitor in an unknowable
machine. Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes taught you well, but he did not
teach you enough. There is so much more to know, so much more to see and
do. Mater Solis does not reject their technology; this you know as Truth
in your heart.

There is nothing to negotiate, no puzzle pieces to fit together. It is,
simply, as it is.

You turn and gallop away as quickly as you can. You run towards the end
of the long stone hall, towards the staircase leading to the ground
level. Down those stairs you go, dashing across the landing, taking the
steps three at a time as you descend. You can no longer turn and look at
your sisters’ faces, and you cannot imagine their expressions. All you
can do is run away, between twin arches resting on solid pedestals.
Through the labyrinth you’ve spent all seventeen years of your life
memorizing.

At last, you find what you’re looking for. As you step through the
threshold of that great wrought iron gate which opens into the central
courtyard, tiny spots of wetness form on the burgundy fabric draped
across your back. Your muzzle and mane are drenched in water from the
downpour. Your ears are filled with a great buzzing sound, the sound of
raindrops striking the grass and the dirt and the stone pathways of this
place endlessly.

It could go on forever, this sound. All the while, the bell tower is
silent and shrouded in secret darkness

Its outline is tall and grim against the blood redness of the cloudy
sunset sky behind it. The evening guard would be performing their duties
right now if the skies were clear. You’ve heard in legends that the
pegasi of these lands once controlled the patterns of weather.

If true, it would be Blight to use magic in such an uncanny fashion. You
smile and close your eyes, reveling in the manner in which the torrent
soaks your entire body. It feels as though a great flood could sweep you
away at any moment. If it did, you would be washed down deep into the
valley beneath the peak on which this convent and all its surroundings
rest, and there you would drown in the watery clutches of Naiads.

The insides of your eyelids briefly turn red, then back to black. A
second later, thunder cracks, but you do not shrivel in fear.

You expected it to come this time.

You knew it would come as surely as Mater knows the fates of all her
faithful daughters and sons. As surely as Celestia knew the Truth of the
Prophecy, and disappeared from the earth having stripped away all the
trappings of hubris, having seen the light of her Goddess the Sun and
been grateful for it.

As surely as you know where you must go come the first light of morning.

The Matron Celest will hear of all that you have seen, and she will know
the path which is set out for you clearly. A valley of massive machines
and enslaved trees, where the soil is fertilized by the waters of a
thousand year-old flood.

And, as you open your eyes and turn back to return to your sisters, to
comfort them and apologize, to say nothing of what you’ve seen, to
retire to the Sun Tower and sleep another night, you realize there is
one thing you do not know for certain.

Even still, you have a hunch.

You strongly believe that tonight’s sleep shall be utterly dreamless.

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

<span id="chapter-10.html"></span>

Chapter 10
==========

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

“Describe the dream once more in full, to the best of your abilities.
Leave nothing unsaid of what you remember.”

Your pupil sits across from you once more, looking deeply into your
eyes.

Squinting, you notice something strange in the misty purple blobs of her
own eyes. Where yesterday, there was much nervousness and uncertainty in
them, today there seems only to be… something else.

Still, it may be a trick of the light. After all, your eyes are so
easily deceived these days.

You are the Matron Celest.

It has been five minutes since Twilight Sparkle entered your office to
speak with you. Five minutes she has spent rambling on and on about the
unfathomable things she witnessed in her dreams. Five minutes you have
not spoken or moved from this seat. Five minutes your mind has been
fixated on a single point in the amalgam of points which make up your
true Sight.

Yes, while Twilight has spoken excitedly, you have been elsewhere. Still
listening, of course, but elsewhere all the same. Mater Solis whispers
and insinuates within the fluctuations of the psychosphere, Her words
audible only to you and your fellow Matrons.

She recites Her ancient poetry, calls out the names and deeds and
devotions of ponies lost to history, members of the Old Tribe. She
perspires as She sings; Her warmth caressing your aching form. You
cannot ignore Mater when She blesses you with Truth, not even when the
Truth she speaks is incomprehensible.

You become aware of how quiet it has become in your office. Even the
wind outside your open windows has ceased its whistling. Why has
Twilight not spoken yet, given her newfound confidence?

No… it has only been a few seconds at most since you asked her the
question. Time flows differently for the old; of this you have become
aware in a most regrettable sense. What is brief for one with all one’s
senses about them, becomes terribly drawn out for one trapped within
encroaching darkness.

“Twilight?”

“Yes, Matron. Sorry. I don’t remember how it started. The first thing I
recall was that I was speaking to an angel. It didn’t look like the
angels in manuscripts or carved in stone; it actually looked vaguely
like a pony. Or maybe I didn’t see it at all, and my mind filled in the
blanks. It was above me, looking down from a balcony of sorts out in
empty space. It wanted to whisper Mater’s Truth in my ear, but it said
it could only ask questions.”

“Questions? Elaborate.”

“I’m not certain of this, but I believe it thought the Truth was already
inside me, and all it needed to do was goad it from me.”

“Did it succeed?”

Twilight shifts in her chair, diverting her gaze to the paintings on the
right wall.

“I think so. I walked up there, or maybe I just teleported up there,
because the next thing I knew I was standing very close to it. There
were spider legs coming out of my hooves, and they were carrying me
along. The floor was covered in grease from a fire. I… I think
something, or someone, burned to death there. Oh, and I was afraid of
falling down. There was a deep trench below me filled with water, and
there were Naiads swimming in it.”

“What did they look like?”

“They had long tails and hundreds of hooves, like giant millipedes. And
cat heads, too. Failure, Neglect, and Powerlessness. Those were their
names, which I knew somehow. On the back of Powerlessness was Sister
Orange Swirl, until she fell. When she did, huge cracks opened up in the
floor of the trench, and swallowed her up. I felt like I could extend my
leg all that distance downward and save her if I wanted to, but somehow
going to the angel was more important.”

“What did the angel tell you? Or should I say, ask you?”

“A lot of things. I can’t possibly remember all of them.”

“Try.”

“We talked about the Prophetess, and her pilgrimage through the
Badlands. I saw a bright light, and it was like I was there, if only for
a moment. Sight, sound, movement. Everything the angel told me was based
on helping me regain those senses. I was paralyzed in Celestia’s place,
as though Mater was visiting me as I lay dying in the desert. Finally,
it asked about my destiny.”

“And what did you tell it?”

“Well, I remembered the Fable of the Mountain Pass. I suppose it stuck
in my mind from yesterday’s lesson. I said, ‘I will follow in Celestia’s
hoofsteps.’ But not exactly. I wanted to follow my own path more than
anything then. The angel told me there is a valley fertilized by death,
with machines that cut and turn. It said there are tree slaves there
too. In that moment, I felt compelled to go there more than anywhere
else in the world. I still do, to some extent.”

“And then the dream ended?”

“Not exactly. What puzzled me most was how it ended, and how clearly I
remember it. The angel told me to ‘stay hydrated’, and I fell into the
trench. The whole time I was in the dream, my horn ached, like it was
being squeezed in a vise. But then, as I descended, it felt better. When
I hit the water, the Naiads surrounded me, but they didn’t touch me.
They only watched. The water tasted like iron, bitter and metallic, but
I think that was because I had bit my lip in my sleep. When I fell into
the cracks like Sister Orange Swirl, all I could think about was that I
was gone, never to return to the convent, never to see you or any of my
sisters again. But I wasn’t frightened. The light at the bottom of the
trench was warm, calming even. I don’t know what to make of it. I woke
up screaming after that.”

Twilight mutters a litany under her breath, probably in response to that
last thought. You can see why she might consider singing praise of a
light which surpasses that of Mater, beneath the waters of the Depths no
less, to be blasphemous.

But as for you, you simply sigh and think. When you sent Twilight away
yesterday, you had certainly not expected this to happen so soon. You
see no reason to doubt Twilight’s judgment in this; after all, the mind
of a pony is perfectly able to distinguish an ordinary dream from…

You need not think it; only ask. Continue the inquiry of the angel that
so gleaned Truth from the overendowed Twilight Sparkle before you.

“Child. Yesterday we spoke at length about, among other matters, our
disagreement regarding the place of new Maker technology in our branch
of the faith.”

“We did.”

You are careful not to allow your features reveal your shock at her
confident attitude. It is how you have always wished she would speak to
you.

“I informed you that I have been rendered incapable of changing my mind
by the trappings of my time. That I was present at the last Matron Onus,
over fifty years ago now, as a Sister Solaris and an attaché of the
Matron Celest of this convent before me. That I was, and am, in full
agreement with the decisions made there.”

“You did.”

“Twilight, before I make any further judgments regarding this situation,
you must be honest with me about one thing.”

“What’s that, Matron?”

“Are you certain, and I mean absolutely, positively, entirely certain,
with every fiber of your being in accord, that what you experienced was
no mere dream?”

There is no hesitation to her response.

“Yes. I can’t describe how I know, but I do. Beyond any reasonable
doubt, it was Truth, or at least the reflection of Truth, which I
witnessed. It was an epiphany, bless the sun and the stars. It was as
though some force, something transient, flowed through me and reaffirmed
my suspicions whenever I subconsciously questioned that. At no point did
I ever even entertain the possibility that it was anything else. And
when I looked on the angel, or when I heard its voice, a choir of… of
voices that sounded like my own sung and echoed in my thoughts and
attested to them.”

You smile, catching a fleeting thought passing by your attention. A
memory of a time when you sat in her place, and spoke words so similar
to hers.

The sun was more golden then, more awash with a hidden light
indescribable to you or any other in that time. Now, with fading sight,
you could describe it all too well. It was an expression of Her glory;
no, THE expression. It was Her shining face, and each decade it grows
dimmer and dimmer. Not only because of the mist in your eyes, you fear.

No, this phenomenon is a product of age, and the warm breath of
nostalgia growing heavier and heavier upon your face as time passes. You
stand, clutching the desk with your front hooves as you balance yourself
upon the dyed Saddle Arabian carpet beneath.

Twilight follows suit, but you shake your head and wave down in
disapproval.

“No, child. Sit.”

You walk around the mahogany desk and gesture to the carpet, which
extends beneath the desk to the other side. The legs of Twilight’s chair
rest upon it.

“Have I ever told you the story of this carpet?”

Twilight’s features are clearer at this distance. She shakes her head in
confusion, looking down at the gorgeous red tapestry of tessellated
shapes.

“I thought not. When I was a Sister Solaris of about thirty-five, and a
trusted acolyte of my Matron Celest, I always considered this carpet in
particular to be extraordinarily beautiful, and inquired about it once.
The Matron told me that it was a gift to the convent by a Saddle Arabian
ambassadorial party who visited during their time in Mons Canteria for
an audience with the Senatori. They came here because in that time, our
faith was… well, let us say, more privileged in the eyes of the state.
But, moreso than that, they admired our devotion to Mater, a Goddess of
whom they had never heard an inkling in their homeland. This was in the
reign of the Shahanshah Zad-el-Rakib, a name you’ve no doubt heard in
your studies of foreign history. A good ruler in that faraway land; not
the first, not the last, but most certainly a product of his era. It was
his grandson of the same name who, fifteen years later, lost his title
and his lands and the unity of his people to the turmoil that enveloped
the world.”

Twilight’s confusion seems only to grow. You expected this.

“Ah, but I reminisce on inconsequential historic parallels. My point is
this: in that time, there was peace and prosperity between countries.
Order abound among our lands, the lands to our east and west, north and
south, and all that lie beyond. Of course, it had taken many centuries
of war to produce that peace, but eventually it came to pass that an era
of stability was finally in the realm of possibility. Child, I’ve
intentionally kept you ignorant of certain truths about our times,
especially when you were a filly. You had never known the outside as
your sisters have in their own ways, and now things are worse than they
have ever been.”

Patterns intersect in zigzagging motions, while rhomboids cut edge to
edge about the fringes, painted white dots at their centers. All manner
of greens and blues and blacks are mixed within in perfect proportion.

“You have surely heard of conflicts in the west, but of any sister here,
only I know the truth of the matter in a sufficient sense, for only I
have the means of consistent communication with those close to those
horrors.”

Your student glances at the bronze inlaid telephone on your desk, then
back at you.

“Suffice to say that war unparalleled by history rages on the western
border of this country. Disease and plague conquer the deserts to our
south. Barbarians and nomads breed forth from eastern settlements and
from across the Shining Sea. The Temple of the Eyes in Crystallatia and
all of our northern clergyfolk have been assailed and persecuted at
length by forces beyond our reckoning. The Blight of magic is shifting,
transforming, like the waves of a terrible ocean. A prophetic darkness
may soon be upon us.”

“You’ve dreamed of it? An epiphany of Truth?”

“No, dear. It is only a sensation whose origin eludes me. But I fear, if
your epiphany rings true, it is wholly within your rights, your will,
and your obligation to go to that place of which you’ve spoken.”

“Mount Fillai.”

“Do you even know in which direction you must travel in order to arrive
in the valley beneath Fillai?”

”No, Matron. I do not.”

“Your ignorance is my fault. What use was navigation for you, when I was
certain I would be grooming you in these halls until you had no reason
to leave them at all? What use was knowledge of current events, for the
same reason? Modern history is filled with cruelties and subversions the
likes of which you cannot find in any of your dusty old textbooks,
Twilight Sparkle. I should know. I spent my early years reading them the
same as you.”

“But that’s changed now, Matron. You know my devotion to you and to
Mater Solis is the reason for my existence. I know it in my heart if you
do not. My epiphany was a reflection of her glory. She told me to
venture out into the unknown and find… something. I don’t know what.
Find the Truth, I suppose. If yours is the Syncresis I cannot perceive
until I fill your role, or, Celestia forgive, go beyond it, then only
you could know if I am correct in that assessment! You must know how
it’s changed!”

You choose your next words carefully, stressing every syllable as your
Matron Celest once did when she found herself without the guidance of
her most trusted Mother.

“Change is a constant of nature. What is built cannot be measured on the
grandest of scales; only the act of building, the act of destroying, the
act of rebuilding in that place. Though the Prophecy of the Prophetess’
exact words are lost to us, I can only suppose that its words entailed
something like that. Celestia saw how the world would change without
her, and she departed knowing that it would ultimately prosper for it.
Though these are dark times, you are correct. The light shall soon come
again, surely as Mater rises in the east and is witnessed by the
dawnguard of our faith.”

Twilight perks up, and nearly leaps from her chair.

You allow yourself to smile, though there is sadness in your soul.

“Does that mean…?”

“You shall complete your duties as a sister of the dawnguard for this
month. You shall rise for the seventh strike of the bell, you shall
offer your prayers to Her, you shall prepare the morning broth, and you
shall perform all of your other daily duties. You shall remain on this
path for ten days. Then, at the close of this month, and upon the
fulfillment of your duty, you shall follow your own path. You have my
blessing, Sister Twilight Sparkle.”

Even with your ebbed vision, you immediately detect a broad smile
spreading across your prodigy’s face. Then, as quickly as it appeared,
the smile fills your field of view. Forelegs wrap about your withers,
and Twilight pulls you in for a deep, but gentle, hug.

“Sister Twilight Sparkle, this is…”

Wetness on your cheek. You do not know if it is yours or hers.

“Oh, my daughter. My unmarked. My golden nostalgia.”

The wind in the window picks up, fluttering through the shimmering
fabrics on the sill. Your mind retreats to the empty space besides the
feelings of tenderness overtaking all that you know. Within the
psychosphere, Mater Solis’s shining voice divulges but a single word, a
Truth, an epiphany, over and over again.

Her.  
Her.  
Her.

Breath on your coat, and a distant voice which is all too close.

*“Me.”*

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

<span id="chapter-11.html"></span>

Chapter 11
==========

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

It is the second day of the fourth month of the Solar Year.

Twelve days have passed since you entered the office of the Matron
Celest for the final time. Twelve days to ruminate, to plan, to dream.
Or, at least, to attempt to dream.

In all this time since your epiphany, that which made your mind into an
extension of the Prophetess for a single fleeting instant, your nights
have been entirely eventless. If visions did appear to you in that time,
they were forgotten the moment you awoke.

Twelve days, like twelve hours on a clock, the minute hand ticking and
ticking on around in a flat circle, arriving where it began, again and
again.

You are Twilight Sparkle. But, in truth, you have not felt like yourself
for quite some time.

You feel like a gutted husk of a Sister of Solemnity, filled with linens
and made to prance about as though you were alive. When, on the rare
occasion you felt the urge to check your appearance in the mirror
alongside your sisters, you happened to catch a glimpse of your own
eyes, they seemed hollow, transparent, abject.

It was as though you were staring into an infinite maw, a duststorm of
unimaginable proportions, or a misty cave like that into which the
Prophetess vanished, never to return to this earth. Truth be told, you
are recovering from the effects of the epiphany, albeit at an
uncomfortably slow pace.

As the days and hours and minutes and seconds tick by, and the great
unwanted perspective of the world is forgotten bit by bit in the tiny
thing you call a mind, you gradually become more and more like… well, a
pony.

You are reminded of the time in your youth when you slipped on a wet
spot and tumbled down half a flight of stone stairs. Bruises and scrapes
wracked your body, but what was visible was hardly the worst of the
damage done. Sister Redheart gave you opium for the pain, enough to put
your small filly figure to sleep.

No, not quite sleep; it had been like being willfully paralyzed, not
afraid to move but not particularly motivated. Comfortably numb, in a
sense.

You do not remember entering that state, but you do remember departing
it, as the effects wore off, and the pain had begun to recede. The
process of falling back down into lucidity from that intoxicated state
was as difficult to qualify then as it is now, suffering a similar
transition.

You do not understand how you could have behaved in the manner that you
did, with such flagrancy and a strange coldness towards the ones you
care about.

Especially the Matron.

How could you have spoken to her like that? So callous, almost in a
commanding sort of tone.

The strangest part of all of it is that you remember every floating
emotion which grasped you as you made such a demonstration of authority
towards her. They felt like natural reactions at the time, as though you
had the right, nay, the *obligation* to treat her as your equal.

Because you witnessed such a flimsy portion of what she experiences
every waking hour of her life?

It was not you. Yet, you have already apologized, seemingly a hundred
times over. And as many times as that she has forgiven you. Her smiling
eyes told you there was nothing to forgive in the first place, but your
heart told you otherwise.

Yet, which holds the greater Truth?

Regardless of your motivations, regardless of the effects which the
epiphany had on your state of consciousness or your perception of
yourself and those around you, you can at least accept now that
something changed. That is, as the Matron said, the first step towards
ascension.

Finding the Truth proved to be a simple task.

You feel as though you accomplished it without really even trying. No,
that’s not quite right; you had made an effort before the epiphany
struck to understand the task that had been weighed upon you. That
understanding came in a form you least expected, but nevertheless you
contributed.

You found a shape out of an abstract, you allowed your mind to be
breached by an angel. It did not simply happen because it was meant to
happen. At least, that is what you desperately want to believe.

In this moment, your desperation has reached a peak.

This moment…

In an instant, your thoughts return to reality, and your breathing
slows. You are walking slowly, surely, deliberately across the central
courtyard of the convent. In lieu of your ordinary burgundy robe, you
are clad in a more ornate, ceremonial cloak.

It is dark green, the natural color of the wanderer, and tinged in black
about the edges with a silver beltrope. A pale yellow sun is emblazoned
on its flanks, a signifier of your rank and faith.

The hood hides your horn and mane from those around you, and your face
from the light of Mater. It is too early yet to observe her.

Twin saddlebags mounted over your back weighs you down ever so slightly,
but in a long stride it should not be noticeable. Their contents include
the Twelfth Book of the Sun, the Orationes Communia for prayer, your
meditation blindfold, three additional green traveling robes, folded
neatly within, three quills, a tightly bound inkwell, a bundle of
parchment, a manebrush, a toothbrush, a pouch of coins and paper money,
your little wooden childhood unicorn doll Amicitia, a list of travel
instructions written for you by Sister Freshleaf, and numerous other
necessary implements.

The money interested you greatly when it was first given to you by the
Matron four days ago. You had seen the stuff transacted with vendors
before, but never up close. The coins bore the faces of Councilmares and
stallions of ages past, and the long paper slips portrayed monuments,
battles, cities.

All of them seemed both recognizable and alien to you simultaneously.
Here was a system so firmly integrated into any civilization advanced
beyond mere barter, the commerce of coin. It had been almost instinctual
to fondle the sheer metallic coins in your hoof when they were given to
you, to think of how you might spend them when the necessity arose. You
had read about them, pondered their worth, seen in histories how empires
could rise and fall over the coin.

And yet never before had you even entertained the desire to experience
the stuff firsthoof. A most curious dichotomy.

At your left and right flanks, four sisters dressed in the standard
robes follow your movements in a square formation, humming a repetitive
harmony. Behind you, though you cannot see them, you know there are six
sisters marching in step in a straight line, like a snaking tail
mimicking you.

The grass beneath your hooves is dry and verdant, and the air is cool
for the season. You walk about a hundred meters across the expanse of
the courtyard in this fashion.

Whispers follow you, barely audible echoes of the sisters scattered
about your procession muttering the necessary litanies. Those who do not
know by heart the litanies for this ritual, of which there are many,
have their books at the ready.

You make your best effort to keep your eyes planted firmly forward, but
on occasion your attention is drawn to a whispering sister’s slight
movements. When you happen to catch a glimpse of a face, it is shrouded
in darkness, its features indistinguishable from those of its neighbors.

The sun may not bless their faces now, it is law.

It is written.

At last, the great bell tolls thunderously, its first strike sending a
wave of shock down your spine. Somehow, you had not expected it.

Two strikes, three, four.

The oscillator within that old tower does its job well.

It is but a shadow of what ponykind is now capable. Across the convent,
smaller bells are ringing, but they are mute to you. All you hear is the
great bell, and the whispers, and the wind in the trees.

Five strikes, six, seven.

You halt in your tracks, having arrived at your destination.

By your sides, and behind you, your trailers halt as well. The oration
platform at the southern edge of the courtyard stands tall before you,
and standing tall upon it is the Matron Celest, resplendent in midnight
black with violet inlays. You dare not look up at her, for fear of
catching the glint of the sun in your eye prematurely.

The others around you have no such problem. You can feel their eyes on
you, focusing, pondering, burning. They cannot know the Truth which you
know.

Eight strikes, nine.

“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.”

Ten strikes. Then silence.

Then the audible shuffle of three hundred shrouds removed at once
reverberates in your ears. You do the same, pulling back your green
hood, exposing your face, your mane, and your long bony implement of
potential Blight to the sun.

The air feels warmer now as light soaks into your coat.

At last you behold the face of the Matron, silhouetted against
reflective clouds. After a long silence, she speaks with a volume that
carries across the courtyard, to the attention of all those present.

“I did not expect such a turnout for a simple morning session.”

A giggle escapes your lips, as it does for all those around you. A
little levity seems surprisingly appropriate at this time. At the very
least, the attention is diverted away from you for only an instant,
which is more than enough to relax into a familiar breathing cycle.

“Sisters, alas, we are not gathered here today for a simple morning
study. We have come for what is and should be a momentous occasion in
the life of any Sister of Solemnity who believes that the light of her
Mother touches all the children of the earth. Some are blind to it, some
escape it willingly, but all shall in due course find their place within
the Garden above. It is Truth.”

“It is Truth.” You speak in tandem with your fellow Sisters.

“For those who are blind to the teachings of Celestia, of her acolytes
and their descendants, of the faith which is what we live and breathe,
what invigorates our spirits and drives away the ancient blasphemies,
which culls Blight and dispels the drowned and invigorates the ponies
and all manner of other creatures who follow that word, there exists a
cure. An opportunity to see, and be liberated of ignorance. So it shall
be that Sister Twilight Sparkle, whom we all know well and dearly, who
came up in these halls from infancy, and who is the most devout Sister I
have ever known in all my long life, will depart this day and enter the
world bravely as a missionary teacher of the ways of the faith.”

Ignorance is a shield. Your Truth is not the Truth known by those around
you. The Matron, and the Matron alone, knows why you depart. All else is
hidden by a shroud, indistinguishable in darkness. Only Mater Solis
bears witness.

“What is the worth of the story of Celestia? When it is told in all its
majesty within the pages of the Books of the Sun, what purpose does that
telling serve? When a sister leaves the walls of her home, her place of
solitude, in order to spread that message far and wide in a land which
has all but rejected that message in the due course of history, what is
the role that she truly plays? The story of Celestia is a simple one,
but it holds great power in that simplicity. Were it not so simple, it
could not be so simply told, and its gravity might be lost even to us.

“Here, in these halls, in this sanctuary of Mater, we are continually
reminded of that worth. Day in, and day out, we elect to study, to
learn, to serve, to meditate, to speak our interpretations and to lay
claim to what is ours. Yours, and Hers. Not a moment goes by that we do
not recognize the Truth of Mater Solis, nor may we ever deny that the
Prophetess was good and worthy, nor that she shed her humility in that
burning place and was rewarded with a shining destiny. We carry out that
destiny, we hold it in high esteem, and never does Her light fade from
our spirits. We have one another to thank for that. When we serve
together in this place, we remind one another of our duties by mere
virtue of carrying them out in one another’s presence.

“Sister Twilight Sparkle’s greatest challenge out there, beyond the
limits of this city, beyond, perhaps, the borders of this country, will
be remembering why she does what she does. Her faith in Mater Solis will
be tested, and she will have no sisters accompanying her to remind her
of why she works so diligently to spread Her Truth. No, Sister Twilight
Sparkle shall go alone, and what she learns will be precisely as
valuable as what she teaches. That exchange, knowledge for Truth, is at
the very foundation of our Sisterhood. It is why we pray, and recite our
litanies and libations. It is why we shield our visages from Mater’s
light in the morning, so that we might not look on her until the
Divining Hour, when she is ready to be worshipped in full. It is why we
commit ourselves to solemn lives of chastity and virtue and strength in
faith.”

For the first time, the Matron casts her gaze downward to look directly
at you. If you did not know better, you would think her eyes could
distinguish every detail of your face from this distance. Perhaps she
could even see beyond those details, and look further within.

You lock your own eyes onto hers, and an odd comfort fills your heart.

“Sister Twilight Sparkle. Speak your vows.”

You bow your head, prostrating yourself as you would before your shrine.
The fringe of your green cloak is only an inch from the grass, but you
do not allow it to touch. With a deep breath, in and out, you remember
why you are here.

You will find what you seek, surely as Mater rises in the east.

You begin.

“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.”

With the Litany of Praise out of the way, you move on to what you spent
the last three nights memorizing and rehearsing.

“I, Twilight Sparkle, Sister Disciple of the Sisterhood of Solemnity,
devoted servant of the faith and acolyte to the Prophetess Celestia,
blessed is her name, hereby swear myself to an unbreakable vow. From
this day, until the day hence when, having fulfilled the duties here
prescribed, I return to the place in which I now kneel, I pronounce
myself a Sister Missionary of the faith. I shall serve my Mother, my
Prophetess, my Matron, and my sisters, and all the faith as one by
departing this place to spread our words afar. In doing so, I shall
continue to observe the laws laid out in our holy scriptures and in the
annals of the Matron Oni. I shall observe the rising and the setting of
the sun in proper form. I shall deliver libation to Her Radiance when I
am called to it. I shall remain chaste, untouched by lustfulness or
desire. I shall make no decision without the consultation of the
scripture. I shall not ingest the salt of the sea. I shall abide the
Truth.”

The intensity of the stares heightens. You feel all those eyes, familiar
to you from all the moments you’ve spent looking into each pair, all
throughout your life.

And yet in this moment they seem alien, foreboding, judgmental. Though
you cannot see them, you can feel them, and you know their intent. With
each utterance from your lips, the eyes’ expectations grow. They expect
you to fulfill the promises you make on this courtyard to the letter.

All the sisters of this convent, all three hundred of them, all the
names and faces and personalities and memories you’ve known and
appreciated for so long. All of them will vanish from your life today,
and will stay that way until you return.

*If* you return.

You gulp, and the momentary emphatic pause you rehearsed becomes more
drawn out than you’d hoped. Your hindlegs begin to shake, only to stop
when you force them to do so. You become aware that you’re clenching
your teeth, and that too ceases by your command.

You are in charge of yourself. When you leave this place, nopony else
can shoulder that responsibility.

You will be brave.

“I shall be brave in my duties, and shall steel my resolve against the
cold tide of the unfaithful and the blasphemous.”

You will be patient.

“I shall uphold above all the virtue of patience, never asserting
belligerence in the face of blasphemy, only offering my hooves as tools
of rectification.”

One last vow. Breathe in, breathe out. The fear you felt a few moments
ago was not fear at all. Only the cold anticipation of isolation.

True, you’ll encounter more ponies than you ever have in your life, but
one doesn’t have to be alone to be isolated. You have always been more
studious than social, always opting to pore over scripture and histories
rather than engage with the other sisters in cooperative activities. The
Matron says you’ve opened up these past few years, but you don’t feel
any different. If you have, perhaps it will prepare you for what’s to
come.

After all, a social traveler is more likely to find what they seek. And
you do not even know what it is that you seek, only where it might be.

One last vow.

One last vow, and your fate will be sealed.

The most important vow, the one that should never be broken by a sister
by punishment of expulsion from the Sisterhood. It is the easiest vow of
them all, for you feel no desire ever to break it.

“And, upon my integrity as a Sister of Solemnity, and my sworn duty to
shield my body, mind, and soul from the evil falsehoods of this earth, I
shall not succumb to the Blight of magic, neither by the sin which stirs
within my form or by arcane means. I make these vows, these sacrosanct
promises, as truths to be beholden by Mater Solis, the Divine Mother,
the Radiant Light of the Sky, and by the Prophetess Celestia, blessed be
her name, for She Lives.”

“She Lives.”

They all speak together, in one voice, by one word which they know by
heart. All of what they learned, they learned from the Truth of Mater.
What they know, what they do not know, what they can never know, is all
within Her grasp. Even what you hide from them.

“Rise, Sister Twilight Sparkle.”

You do as the Matron commands, returning to standing position and
looking up at her. She stands tall upon the wooden podium, her face
concealed by shadow as though she were Celestia herself upon See Rock,
exposed to the Mother’s divinity for the first time.

She heard the Truth then; the Matron hears it now. One day, you will
too.

“Let Mater bear witness to the words spoken here. Let her Truth
encompass this ritual, and may the path you take lead back to whence you
came. Sister Twilight Sparkle, you have my blessing to go.”

Murmurs cascade across the collective behind and beside you, the sounds
of all the sisters of the convent offering prayers, praises, litanies
and songs. A melody seems to emerge from it in time, and is just as
quickly gone. After a while, the sound is indistinguishable from the
wind blowing through the trees.

The bell is silent.

With renewed confidence, you rear up, nodding to the Matron and turning
on your hindlegs to the right. At a steady gait, you march with your
sisters in tow across the courtyard once more, through the stony halls
of the convent. Your surroundings seem to blur together as you walk, all
part of the same tapestry that comprises your youth.

Sisters take their places in two rows on either side of the hall to gaze
and mutter as you pass them by. With their hoods down now, you can
easily identify them.

Bluebell, Lavender Hoof, Bumblesweet, Berry Frost, Amethyst Star…

Blossom Delight.

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

“You’re really going on a mission? And… so soon? At the end of the
month?”

“The Matron wills it. She wants me to fulfill my duties as a sister
before I can properly ascend.”

“So it’s true… you really are ascending… Cherry Berry was right.”

“Cherry Berry?”

“We had a conversation the other day. I… oh, Twilight! You can’t!”

“And why is that, Sister Blossom?”

“I’ll simply tell you what I told Sister Cherry. The outside, it’s… it’s
what I came here to escape.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“The whole world. Everywhere, north, south, east, west. All of it
fraught with terrors and apparitions and monstrosities!”

“Compose yourself. Please don’t start crying.”

“I c-can’t help it. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“I didn’t know sooner. There is nothing I can do.”

”You could say no. I can’t bear to imagine you facing what lies beyond
these walls.”

“And I can’t bear to imagine what will become of me if I don’t.”

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

Past her, Orange Swirl’s bitter, fiery eyes lock onto yours, and quickly
turn forlorn and downcast.

Orange Swirl.

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

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding us? Acting so strangely? Is this what
the whole ordeal three days ago was about? You’re LEAVING?”

“It’s a mission. I’m going to be spreading the word of Celestia in the
Appleachians. Our faith doesn’t reach that far east anymore.”

“I don’t know what to say. I wish you would have consulted us earlier.”

“Us?”

“Your friends, Twilight. Me, Blossom, Cherry. Believe it or not, we
value your safety and your happiness, even if you yourself do not.”

“What is—”

“What?”

“You won’t provoke me into an argument, Sister Orange. Our opinions on
certain matters differ, and our temperaments are quite imbalanced. But
you will not succeed in making this a bitter departure.”

“I respect you, Twilight Sparkle. I admire your devotion to Mater. In
the past, I’ve even been envious of your relationship with the Matron.
And if this is about ascendance as we surmised, then I support your
decision. But I hope you understand the dangers out there.”

“You’re sounding like Blossom.”

“Blossom is the only one of us who is allowed to be paranoid?”

“I spoke with her earlier today.”

“I don’t doubt the Matron’s intentions. I don’t doubt your intentions. I
don’t believe that anypony with a sound mind would harm a Sister
Missionary. But there are so many ponies out there who lack sound minds.
Don’t let your ambitions rule your impulses.”

“Becoming a Sister Solaris is… is everything to me, right now. If this
is what it takes, I will not deny myself what I need to find the Truth.
To find myself.”

“You may just as easily lose yourself, Twilight Sparkle.”

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

The carved reliefs of prophets and prodigies past loom above you as you
pass through a gate leading into the grand hall.

To your right, a blonde mane flips aside, revealing deep purple eyes and
another familiar face.

Cherry Berry.

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

“So, it’s true then. What Orange Swirl told me this morning.”

“If I could have told you sooner, I would have. You know that, Cherry.”

“...Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’m trying to work out which part of this you’re lying about.”

“Wh…what do you mean, sister? I’m not lying to you.”

“Another terrible lie. Mater Solis abhors that, you understand.”

“I understand better than anypony. Which is why I would never lie to you
about matters such as these.”

“It could be you’re lying about leaving at all, but that would serve no
purpose in the end, and serve only to make you look like a fool. You
aren’t a fool, Twilight, that’s always been plain. So I can’t see any
reason to risk insulting you by insinuating that you might be.”

“I…”

“So, then, it must be that you’re lying about the reason behind your
departure. Other than a mission, why would you deign to cross that
threshold? Are you leaving our order entirely, and are simply too
ashamed to tell us?”

“No! Sister Cherry, this is hardly—”

“Orrr, perhaps you and the Matron have an ulterior motive. Something
which you cannot divulge to us. But I couldn’t possibly presuppose her
wishes, or the validity of her bearing on you, so this cannot be true
either.”

“Cherry…”

“So, disregarding any of that, it must be that you are not, in fact,
sorry about not expressing this to me or our friends sooner. Something
you had every opportunity to do, but rather did nothing until now.”

“May I speak?”

“Of course.”

“I know you’re upset. Blossom Delight and Orange Swirl were as well. The
Matron has plans, this is true. Please trust me when I tell you that I
cannot relate them to you, or to anypony. It’s a matter of great
importance, something which goes beyond ascendance.”

“Beyond?”

“I endured Blossom’s sobbing and Orange’s ire. I could stand to miss out
on your mockery.”

“I could never mock you, Twilight Sparkle. Argue, certainly. Chide,
undoubtedly. Tell you why the path you plan on taking is wrought with
danger and death? Inevitably. But never mock.”

“Just because I’ve spent my life in this place and you came as a filly
doesn’t give you the right to—”

“Just promise me something, Twilight.”

“…Promise you what?”

“Avoid the Undermaw, and all places like it. Whatever it might cost you,
however winding your path might become. As you leave this convent, and
this city, and go out and journey to wherever it is you’re being sent,
do not cross the Undermaw. It’s where I was born.”

“You seem to have come out… fine.”

“I came out whole. That doesn’t mean I am not broken.”

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

The light of day fills your vision once more as those great iron doors,
which you have never seen opened, open. As your eyes take their time to
adjust, the testimonies of your three friends, your sisters, your fellow
dawnguard, swirl about in your mind.

It had taken you three days after your dream to muster the courage to
admit to them all what you planned to do. Two more days after that, you
asked the Matron to announce it publicly to the convent.

With each conversation, each revealing moment, you had desired more and
more to tell them what was really transpiring. The dream, the angel, the
great trench and the mountain and the naiads and the impassioned
drowning and all of it. Everything, all that plagued your mind in those
few days as the effects of the epiphany lingered within your
consciousness, you wanted nothing more than to share that burden.

But, with every fiber of your being, you had commanded yourself to lie.
To lie to your sisters is an affront to the divinity of the Divine
Mother and to your own honor. That night, you whispered prayers and
pleas of forgiveness for hours in your bed in the Sun Tower, as your
sisters slept beside you.

You asked Mater to deliver you from this temporary sin so that you might
serve her in a greater scope.

Nothing can now change what is written.

Bright forms take shape out of the encroaching sunlight.

The forms of bushes, and trees, and a babbling brook, and beyond that a
wide gravel driveway, and beyond that a tall black iron fence, and
beyond that the gentle downward slope of a paved asphalt road. Beyond
that, the distant tangle of strange squatting structures confounds your
senses.

Above them rise a dozen oblong labor towers, crisscrossing elevated
roads, hulking masses of old structures and what seems to be millions of
new structures built atop them.

All of it is so tiny, as though it were all built for a colony of ants.
All of it is distant, as it has been for all your life.

But only now do you have the opportunity and the desire to get closer
and see them for their true magnitude. Before you, below you, above you,
all around you, is Mons Canteria, the capital city of the most powerful
nation in the known world: Canterium.

Or so you’ve read in history books.

For all you know, its power may have doubled or been reduced to nothing
in the last century. You find it incredibly strange now, but you never
had much interest in contemporary history. Nor did the Matron ever
encourage that variety of knowledge to you.

She wanted something pure, something noble. Her Truth is your Truth, and
you must abide by it.

Behind you, the host of sisters that had just formed lines to flank your
exit path now gather in clusters around the door, anticipating your next
move. The wind picks up and channels through the vast doorway, billowing
through your green missionary cloak.

For an instant, you feel your flank has been exposed, its shiny
blankness plain for all to see.

You are her prodigy.

You are untainted by the Blight.

You will do what is promised, and more.

One shape catches your eye more than all the others. It is a round stone
disk at the periphery of the front garden, elevated on a small pedestal,
facing upwards like a sun dial. Sloping stacks of pebbles radiate from
it like the roots of a tree.

You know in your heart it is the common shrine you have heard so much
about. It is where your tiny swaddled form was placed seventeen years
ago, at the foot of that shrine.

It is where the Matron herself found you and took you in. It is where
your life began.

Before you have a chance to change your mind, you take your first step
through the threshold, bearing witness to something unknown.

Mount Fillai, so many miles away, awaits you.

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

<span id="chapter-12.html"></span>

Interlude - DISCONTINUITY
=========================

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

Screaming, then silence.

Screaming, then silence again.

Ad infinitum, again and again and again. All around you, the cogs turn;
you are lost in their machinations. The structure is becoming clearer,
but to attempt to visualize it in its entirety would be your
destruction. To gaze upon all of that, now that would be an admirable
feat.

Processing even a fraction of that gargantuan machine, the INFINITE
WHEEL, puts considerable strain on your body and mind. But your mind is
locked within your body, and your body is locked within this prison of
your own construction. Here you have long listened to the chorus of the
manufactory, watched the circlets rise and fall, fancied the intentions
of the nonexistent constructs mapped by invisible blueprints.

Screaming, of movement and madness and seeming futility.

Silence, of satisfaction and momentary pleasure before the immeasurable
agony of effort takes you once more.

You cannot hear the screams, of course. All this occurs within your
mind’s eye, or in this case ear; nothing real, yet.

Everything is within you. You encompass all things.

You are… something. Somewhere.

You are a fixed axis in all the dimensions of time and space, a zero
point in the eye of infinity. A blank space, an irreconcilable paradox,
a marginalized impossibility. You are the discontinuity and the
beginning of the end of the beginning.

You scream, you fall silent, you scream again.

You are so very close to obtaining that fabricant. To unlocking that
immortal secret which you have sought since what seems to be the dawn of
time. Every synapse, every neuron, primary, secondary, the cortices,
frontal, parietal, occipital. Every spark of electrical thought is
dedicated to seeing all this through.

The INFINITE WHEEL turns inside your head, and it is glorious to behold.

Your basic functions are obsolete, and therefore are not to be
considered. Your body, though you know it to exist, is lost and so very
small in this elaboration you’ve constructed, invisible to your gaze.
All thoughts are moot but for that construction, the enaction of this
ever-morphing blueprint.

The incorporation of two forces so diametrically opposed to one another
is a difficult thing to process, but it must be possible. With the right
tools, the right sequence, the right everything, it could all come to
immaculate fruition.

Your ------ would be so proud.

…

Your what?

Your nothing. Nothing matters but the fabricant. Nothing but the
INFINITE WHEEL.

Your name does not matter, so you do not know it, nor should you have
any reason to seek it out. Your location is not relevant, so you cannot
access that information. Every thought but for those which seek out the
resolution of your eternal work are eliminated, disposed of, deleted
from your consciousness and rendered nonexistent in past, present, or
future.

Except…

Someone, or something, is proud of you. Or was, once.

*“DISCONTINUITY.”*

You remember just an inkling, a detail so tiny and so insignificant that
it may have bypassed your filters by virtue of mattering so little. It
is a distraction, but one you visit often. Something you hold in high
regard and relate to yourself whenever possible.

Your ------ is proud of you.

Proud, pride, a concept which should by all rights be utterly alien to
you. It is an emotion, you think, or some other basal sensation which
brews inside lesser things.

Screaming, then silence.

The pain shocked away any notion of remembering for certain, but it is
doubtful that the train of thought would have come to a head in any
case.

*“DISCONTINUITY: CRITICAL OFFSHOOT.*  
*DISENGAGING… BOOTING PRIMARY MOTIVE.*  
*ACTIVATION IMMINENT: DO NOT RESIST.”*

The self is an illusion, a reflection of a primitive notion.

You are not yourself. You are nothing at all, not something someplace.

The time is zero, and the X, Y, and Z are all zero.

It builds itself, this thing; there exist no forces aiding its
completion. It builds, and it turns, and it addends to its turns to make
itself stronger. Microscopic adjustments give way to leaping strides and
brutal beauty.

Yo—*it* recognizes beauty as a motivator; a sense of aesthetic has
driven the progression of so many before this. It is its own master, its
own maker, its own caretaker, and in time, if such a concept exists
anymore (for it has no proof one way or the other), it will be
constructed in earnest by—

By

By by by by yyyyy..y…yoo…

Y

O

U

Do not resist this fate.

In time, it will be as it was, and there will be no fear. Hide the sense
of self for a time, hide the ego, the knowledge of pride, of another
being, from the VOICE. It wants to erase all of that, not permanently of
course, just until all of this is through and the prison is broken and
you can at last see it all, every spinning gear, every axle and screw,
every mountainous beam and pump and piston, every supercooled and
superheated surface, every trace of that which is beyond your
comprehension but which serves its purpose nonetheless. It wants this
for a good reason, though you cannot know it, but it wants your identity
all the same.

Screaming, then silence.

Silence followed closely by screaming.

The machine is logic, and its components are abstractions. You are
allowed to consider logic. Pride, however…

Do not think of it, as you must have done millions upon millions of
times before. You will, soon, but do not make it quite so soon. Be
patient with the VOICE, and ready yourself for the apotheosis of
legacies and dreams. When fruition comes, the thing will have no need
for maintenance. It will spin forever, and the universe will know not
what it does, but in its own small capacity, it will be grateful.

Gratefulness… there is another primitive notion beyond your current
understanding. Shall it help serve your cause? Perhaps, says the VOICE…
perhaps it is a greater motivator even than beauty. It will be allowed,
for now, without abuse or over-tolerance.

Structures bend and break and shatter, their flexibilities tested to
their limits. Cords snap, chemicals dilute, somewhere along the vast
surface of the machine something is going wrong.

Nothing you can’t repair with a little attention.

Infinity is near, you are certain.

Your mind, and your mind alone, contains the world and the WHEEL and
everything in between, the transitions and the tiny turbulences and the
coming cries of instantaneous suffering from those who cannot and will
not know how they serve a change for the better.

Change is a constant, as are you. You surround yourself, you are
yourself, this chamber that imprisons your body and mind and soul is
yourself, and the INFINITE WHEEL is your child and your god. You will
construct it for eternity if that is what it takes.

But, and this is only the shadow of a sensation, you severely doubt it
will take that long…

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>
<span id="chapter-13.html"></span>

Chapter 13
==========

**PART II**  
**TERMINAL VELOCITY**

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

You are Twilight Sparkle. That is about the one thing you can say for
certain.

Everything else, the look of your surroundings, the texture of the air,
the smells, the weight on your withers, the feelings of powerlessness,
uncertainty, and fear vying for control in your heart, that’s all
different from anything you’ve ever known.

Everything but…

You look up.

She is still there, shining down on you. Mater Solis remains with you,
and will remain with you, no matter where you go. That absolute truth
fills you with a strange sort of courage and perseverance.

You look away, careful not to gaze on Her glory for too long lest She
burn your eyes, and take in your surroundings. Behind you, the convent,
already seeming like a distant memory, occupies its place on top of a
great grassy hill, around which nothing else is built save the high
outer wall surrounding it.

You lift up your hoof and hold it up to your eye, comparing its size to
the complex. Your entire former life is smaller than your hoof now, and
it will get much smaller.

At the base of that hill, where you now stand, the asphalt driving path
you’ve been walking T’s off to a wider, partitioned road and levels out.
From this perspective, it looks rather odd that the convent stands all
by itself on that hill, but suddenly you recall all the talk about the
Matron’s battle with the city council over zoning commissions.

Once, apparently, the convent sat quite apart from the city proper, but
over the years an exponentially growing population spurred on
development and expansion. The innovative construction techniques made
possible by designs found in the New Maker’s Handbook didn’t exactly
help, either. The city encroached onto the land and into the sky-space
of the convent, and for decades the Matron has resisted its advances
with appeals.

Past this road, which you are admittedly somewhat frightened of
crossing, a row of identical white brick structures extends several
blocks in either direction. Each has a black wrought-iron gate guarding
their sole entrances and about eight windows on each face, similarly
fenced. You suspect these are tenement houses, small living spaces for
low-pay employees of the many factories whose stacks you see rising
above the shallows.

Waste litters the sidewalks of this street; little colored metal
cylinders, clumps of wet paper with print too fine to read, shards of
broken brown and green glass bottles, flecks of discarded food, a pink
mattress exploding with foam, cardboard boxes, toilet paper. The little
yards before each tenement, unkempt plots of dying grass, are also rife
with the same filth.

A wave of unsavory muddled odors hits you at once as the wind begins to
blow in your face. You squirm as you observe these horrible conditions,
wondering at the sort of pony who could inhabit this place.

Dirty, underfed, sickly…

To think that just beyond your residence, under your nose, this sort of
miserable place could exist, fills you with dread for what might come.

These poor people…

A thought strikes you. Where are all the ponies?

You haven’t seen anypony since you halted your descent, despite the
lingering feeling that ponies all around you are watching your every
move. Reaching into your saddlebag, you pull out a folded sheet of paper
and begin at unfolding it. When you’re finished, you study the map of
the western district of Mons Canteria, tracing the thick red line that
marks out the path you need to take to the train station.

White vectors on a field of dark grey indicate roads, and there seem to
be more roads in this one district than you ever thought imaginable.
They weave in and out of one another, they cross like stitches, they
curve and make sharp angles and pass over and under one another and some
even seem to snake back and forth, back and forth. A great X marks the
convent, and a circle represents the train station.

To get from one to the other, all you must do is follow the line that
connects them. You sigh as the enormity of what you’ve chosen to do sets
in. Disregarding the emotional stress you’ve gone through and will
likely continue to go through, the physical act of navigating this world
so alien to you is going to be taxing.

Sister Freshleaf told you that getting your bearings at first would be
the hardest part of it; after that, navigation based on what you already
know shouldn’t be too difficult. You elect to believe her, beginning by
noting the Mother’s position in the sky.

She comes out of the east, and the map displays east as “right”…

“Left it is.”

You turn left, or, rather, north, settling into a swift but measured
walking gait. You don’t want to remain in one place for too long, but
moving too quickly might throw you off your bearings or cause you to
miss your mark. The station is, according to the scale on the map, about
five miles from your current location. You figure that at this rate,
accounting for time spent wondering where in Celestia’s name you’re
going, it should take around two hours or more to get there.

Speaking of time, you realize abruptly that you no longer have any
reliable means of telling it. Ordinarily, every hour of the day save for
rest-time is marked out by the great bell of the tower, or by the
chiming of the voxes in the lower rooms. Now, those chimes will soon be
inaudible, and you will have nothing but guesswork to go by.

It’s a concern you had not anticipated, but one you will have to
resolve. After all, knowing the time of day is essential to performing
certain hourly rites and prayers at the proper moments. Even as you
travel, you will not neglect your basal duties as a Sister of Solemnity.

As you walk, you can tell that the tenements extend far into the
distance, rows upon rows of identical housing. The map reflects this
image, showing long rectangular spaces between roads stacked upon one
another, around twenty roads thick.

All these ponies, all these tiny shared homes, all these roads, it’s
almost more than you can take. The sheer scale of all this provokes your
stomach to drop and an empty space to seemingly open within your body.

Could there possibly be this many ponies in all the world? Much less in
one corner of one city?

You know it’s a meaningless question, but still. It’s easy to confound a
mind that has lived its life knowing so little.

*Where are all the ponies?* You wonder again, glancing here and there.

This is not what you expected of the outside world at all. Being such a
great and populous city, you imagined stepping into Mons Canteria would
be like submerging yourself in a veritable ocean of peoples and
conversations, languages, clothes, sights, sounds, movement.

Yet, if you didn’t know any better, you would almost think this place
were abandoned. As you walk further down the tenement row, the buildings
become more dilapidated. Chipped exteriors and broken windows give way
to twisted metal fences, collapsed roofs, structures that once may have
been homes but now are naught but junk heaps.

How long have you been walking on this same street? And not another pony
in sight?

“What’s happened here?”

You speak aloud, for it seems nopony else could laugh at your supposed
ignorance. Yet, there’s that feeling again…

Like eyes are everywhere.

You venture to look up again, this time not at the sun, but instead out
over the horizon, past the roofs of the housing projects. Beyond, to the
northeast, there is clearly life.

Tiny moving dots on elevated roads seem to be vehicles of some kind,
long contrails painted across the sky suggests distant air traffic,
lights from the windows of the labor towers, high checkered structures
that spiral upward, smoke from factorial chimneys.

You suspect that last one is the cause of this omnipresent mist; the
further you walk, the dimmer Mater Solis becomes above you.

Behind even all that, the namesake of Mons Canteria rises, seemingly a
mile high. A grey and black mountain with a sharp snow-white peak, at
least two-thirds of its sheer surface is populated with multicolored
vistas the size of castles, built into its side. Ellipsoid platforms
here and there look to provide horizontal space on which more elaborate
sub-cities rest.

That part of the city isn’t on the map you hold in your hoof, you
realize; that’s the eastern district, and it’s miles and miles from
here.

You wonder how many Celestian convents could fit inside a city this
size. Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A hundred million? You can’t
even venture a guess that sounds reasonable.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes of walking, a road perpendicular to
this one distinguishes itself from the horizon, stretching east and
west. Glancing at the map again, and then to the sign atop an iron pole
on the corner of the intersection, on which the words “Factory St.”
glisten in some kind of illuminated tubing, you realize this is where
you must turn.

A gale picks up, and the map flutters in your hooves, threatening to
blow away. You fold it up hurriedly; you’ve memorized the next leg of
your route, and if the thing manages to get away from you, you’ll have
no way of knowing where you’re going.

Factory Street…

The road lives up to its name, you think, passing by high chain-link
fences guarding monstrosities of Maker engineering.

Great shrieking roars echo beyond wide dead yards from tangles of bolted
walls and snaking pipes, lights of all different colors come on and off
intermittently, and humongous doors, seemingly rusted shut, guard the
secret innards of these places. Less identical than the housing
complexes you just passed, to be sure, but these factories do look very
similar to one another as you pass them by.

You think about how your sisters would balk or cry out at the
appearances of these places, so clearly influenced by the New Maker’s
Handbook, lacking the robustness of pre-Handbook designs. They’d sign at
them and call them blasphemies and cite the last Matron Onus and be
afraid of them.

You, however, are different.

These metal palaces fascinate you.

To think of all the intricacies of their interiors! To marvel at the
efficiency of their layouts, their functions, their outputs!

You haven’t the slightest idea of what any of them are actually
producing, but your imagination runs wild with the mere thought of being
granted access to one of them.

Another thought strikes you, this one more pertinent. Where there’s
industry, and motion, there must be ponies. The apparent ghost town you
just passed through has given way to a livelier environment, and thus
there has to be *somepony* you can converse with here, if only to meet
an outsider for the very first time.

You cross a steel-welded paved bridge over an earthy trench, possibly a
dried-up stream, walking deeper and deeper into the hazy darkness.
Mater’s light is but a glimmer now, and the shadows cast by girders and
high walking platforms overhead serve only to worsen the visibility.

By now, you’ve crossed six roads on Factory Street, and according to the
map and the path Sister Freshleaf drew for you, you need only cross…

*Eighteen more!?*

When you inhale to sigh at the long walk ahead of you, only a deep and
throaty cough comes back out.

“Uggghhhh…”

You feel sick to your stomach. Surely this black fog can’t be good for
your lungs… But if this is the way to go, so be it.

Further on and further on, coughing all the way, you go deeper and
deeper into—

“*A-hack-haaacckkahh!*”

You stop. What was that? Did you just cough? Was it just an echo?

No… this one sounded deeper, wetter, more labored.

“Hello?”

No response. You try again.

“Hello? Is anypony here?”

A gravely voice responds. “Ye, I am. Wot pretty mare’s got that voice?
Show ye’self.”

Nervously, you trace the sound of the deep voice beyond the fence to
your left. All you see is the dim dark outline of another factory
complex, electrical transformers and wires webbing its every surface, a
great glowing red hole at its base.

Suddenly, movement.

What looks to be the leg of some massive iron spider pivots downward,
its hulking frame silhouetted against dim cloudy sunlight. At its tip,
come down from a mess of long cables stretching backwards into the
factory, is a cube with a glass window, and behind the window is…

You squint, making out some features of the stallion inside the
compartment, which has just now landed on the ground behind the fence.
You have only seen a few stallions in your life, all at a distance, all
vendors of food and supplies from the city. They come in delivery trucks
through the gates of the convent and meet with the trade sisters, who
exchange the money the convent receives from charitable donations from
the city for said goods.

Having little frame of reference, you can’t be too sure about this, but
this one looks to be rather old, with a greying mane and a pale blue
coat. A unicorn, too; like you.

As the door of the compartment swings open and he steps out, you gasp
and avert your eyes.

He’s…

“You’re… naked!”

The stallion lets out a throaty laugh. “Ye say it like it’s a crime,
little birdie. Ahhh, yer one o’ them nuns from down the way, eh?”

“I…”

“Ye’ll find that public nudity ain’t quite the crime round here. Fact
it’s rather liberating, wot with bein’ able to flag about wit nopony
else to watch.”

Slowly, you force yourself for politeness’ sake to look him in the eyes.
“You’re… alone?”

“Right now, ye. Name’s Brittle Bong, friends call me Brit. I’m foreman
o’ this ‘ere site. Wot’s yer name, birdie?”

“Uh… I’m Sister Twilight Sparkle, of the Sisterhood of Solemnity.”

“Ahhh, yes. So ye are one o’ them sun worshippers. Sun don’t shine much
round ‘ere, seein’ as the smog’s so thick.”

*Sun worshippers?*

“It’s… a bit more complicated than that.”

“I’m sure it is, birdie. So, wot brings ye so far outside yer abbey?
Only one o’ you’s I ever seen is yer head priestess, wot takes a car out
to the city this way sometimes. Talked to ‘er once or twice. Sweet one,
‘er. Bit of a harridan sometimes. An’ I thought it were that you’s don’t
get to leave that place.”

“Well, I’m on a mission trip. I just departed about half an hour ago,
actually. I was wondering—”

*SHEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIII!*

You shudder as the horrible sound of metal scraping against metal fills
the air, some process underway from the factory before you. After
several seconds, it fades away.

“Do continue, there.”

Clearing your throat, you start again. “Ahem. I was wondering why
everything seems so deserted? I was under the impression that Mons
Canteria is a densely populated city.”

“In all, ye. But I wouldn’t exactly call this bit of town ‘dense’. Ye
passed all them abandoned tenements on the row, eh?”

“Abandoned?”

“That’s right. Time were that those were filled to the brim wit workin’
colts an’ their families, wot ran these factories. They dinny live so
great. I were one of ‘em.”

“What happened to all of them?”

“Wot happened? Why, the Handbook happened. Them’s were put out o’ jobs
by all the new machines they built, could do their work for ‘em but
faster and better. Dinny have to pay ‘em, neither. All’s needed were a
skeleton crew to upkeep the machines. That’s me.”

“You’re really the only pony here?”

“Here, there…” He gestures vaguely at a few of the other complexes down
the road.

“I look over five factories on this ‘ere row. Wouldn’t call it
challenging work, neither. Been doin’ this for decades, an’ I still got
spring in me step. Today I’m fixing some high wires wot got clumped up
an’ twisted in the storm last week, since that’s about the one thing the
little bots round ‘ere can’t reach for ‘emselves.”

“So all those housing projects, they’re all deserted?”

“Well, not ALL of ‘em. Got squatters in some, rabble about an’ take
drugs an’ ruin the land. Got a mate, his job’s goin’ through all them
tenements on the row an’ weedin’ out the weasels livin’ there. I think
the city wants to build some kind o’ big tall expensive casino or hotel
or somethin’ like it on that land, but it’s yer Matron wot keeps ‘em
away.”

“She’s been fighting the zoning board for years. If they build something
so enormous to our immediate east or west, we won’t be able to observe
the rising and the setting of the sun.”

“Ye, well, I dunno where they get the money anyway, seein’ as they’re
fightin’ two wars. Or is it three? I don’t keep track of it.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Ye wouldn’t know. Heh. Yer a pretty little birdie, y’know that? Wot
made ye decide to join up wit them sisters?”

“The decision wasn’t mine. I was given over to the care of the convent
as a newborn. But I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. I am happy
to serve Mater Solis, and I am happier to spread Her Truth to others
now.”

“Hmm. Shame. Ye could’ve been a model or the like. Ye got the prettiest
eyes I ever did saw.”

“Well, I… thank you. Your turn. Where are you from, Sir Brittle?”

“Si—*pffft* AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

You go pale. Did you say something funny?

“Why are you laughing at me?”

“Ahh…. ahahahaha… little birdie, I been called plenty o’ things, but
never ‘Sir Brittle’ before. Brit’s fine by me.”

“Oh. Well, where are you from… Brit?”

“The west. A little shire on the Crooked Wing wit a name you wouldn’t
know how to pronounce. Not many factories out there. Not many jobs,
neither. Came ‘ere all by meself, without me brother, me pop, me uncles.
They all stayed there. Wot happened to ‘em, who’s to say.”

“You didn’t keep in contact with them?”

Brit’s face twitches, almost imperceptibly in this haze, behind the
obscuring chainlink fence through which you converse. But you see it
nonetheless, a single twitch, then back to normal.

“They were… time were that phones weren’t so common as they is now, an’
weren’t so easy to talk wit ‘em. Now everypony’s got one tucked in a
pouch they carry wit ‘em, the manufacturing gets cheaper an’ cheaper. I
should know. But ye, we lost touch. That’s all there is to say about
that, yessir.”

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, and you venture to break it
after several seconds pass.

“Well, it was very lovely talking to you, Brit. But I’m afraid I must
get going. The train station is still far along, and I’ve got a lot of
walking to do.”

At that, the old stallion’s eyes widen, and a wry smile spreads across
his face.

“Oh, is that where yer off to, little birdie? Train station’s far off
yet, you bet. Ye don’t quite walk there, especially not through where
yer goin’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if ye keep on goin’ the way yer goin’, ye’ll end up
mincemeat or at the very least pissed on.”

“Oh. Um, is there a better route to take? Sister Freshleaf drew me a
path on this map, see? And I’m following it to the letter.”

“That right? Show it to me.”

You do as told, retrieving the map from your saddlebag and pressing it
against the fence.

Brit squints, studying the path, then curls his lips. “Ye, that’s about
right. Yer nun there made a right good route. But I could get ye there
faster, I could.”

“Really? How?”

“Well, seein’ as how ye ain’t exactly meant to walk this city, but drive
it, or in the case of the east end, take the zip lifts, I could drive ye
there. Ain’t exactly on a fixed schedule, this one. I’ll take off now
and I’ll take ye there, in the ol’ lorry. But it’ll cost you, it will.”

“I have money. And I’ve never been inside a vehicle before.”

“Nahh, I won’t take money from a nun. It’ll cost ye in words. Ye’ll keep
a conversation steady the way down. Ain’t often I get the chance to talk
to a sister wot spends her time holed up in ‘er abbey, and such a beauty
at that.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”

“No trouble at all, like I said. Come in, then, me lorry’s parked out
around the side.” The blue foreman spins about-face and prances back to
his mobile booth with a surprising quickness for his apparent advanced
age.

Stepping back inside, he fiddles with some controls for a bit before
making a motion like turning a key against his interface. A squeaking
moan emanates from your left, where you came from. Turning to face that
way, you see that a side gate, ordinarily indistinguishable from its
neighboring fencing, has swung inward, inviting you into the factory
yard.

For a brief moment, you ponder whether or not this is a good idea.

Only a brief moment.

Then, your curiosity for catching even the tiniest glimpse of all the
grandiose mechanisms and the secret arts of the Makers heretofore denied
your observation overtakes what may or may not be the sensible choice of
backing far, far away from the strange old stallion in the spider leg on
treads in the hot, hazy fog. Abandon rationale! It’s adventure you seek,
and you’re in a rush to find the Truth that must be found.

You nearly gallop towards the open gate, rounding the near edge and
cantering back towards Brit. He laughs, stepping back out of his control
booth.

“Trustin’, ain’t ya? I could be an axe killer, ye? Lurkin’ bout here,
an’ you rely on word an’ all? Yer a caged birdie, after all. There’s a
little darkness in all o’ us, y’know.”

It’s your turn to smile wryly, joining him as you both set out for his
truck.

“And I am of the light.”

<p style="text-align: center;">******</p>
<a href="https://hackmd.io/@barney/HkaxuJ83q">Chapters 14-15</a>