Chapter Text
He thought of wheat, endless seas of it stretching beyond the horizon, each stalk swaying under the noon sun. The sky above was a clear cerulean, its brilliance pouring down to set the fields aglow. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of grain and the warmth of summer. Upon a lone hill stood a tree, its trunk pale as ivory, its leaves shimmering like gold, whispering in the wind.
It had to flood his body, every thought reshaped into fuel to sustain the vision, until it was no longer just an image but a living hunger within him. He forced himself to picture it fully, to carve it into his mind with a clarity that burned—an endless amount of life under the sun.
What was it he looked for in such simplicity? From mere stalks of grain swaying in the breeze? He desired permanence, a promise that no hollow stomach would gnaw again, neither his nor anyone else’s. He imagined his own hands tearing each stalk from the soil, carrying them with care, grinding them, shaping them into loaves that would rise warm and fragrant. Bread that gave tomorrow a shape before today had even finished.
Growth—life itself condensed into its purest energy, a miracle- that was how he came to understand it.
The promise of something more than mere existence. And perhaps, with enough effort, with enough faith poured into that vision, he could…
His eyes snapped open. The vision dissolved into shadow. His fingers curled around a frail, wilted sprout, brittle to the touch, as if mocking the grandeur of his imagination. Along his forearms, faint markings spread like roots burrowing through his skin.
The room pressed down on him in silence, its wooden walls warped with age, its ceiling telling the same. No sound came from beyond those planks—no voices, no wind, no world. He felt the sweat clinging to his features, the stale odor of his own body.
It won’t ever come to you easily, not like it does for the rare few who seem born with the raw talent, who can add it into themselves as if it were no different than a heartbeat.
He eased his body, let his shoulders sink, palms steady where they were, clinging to the visualization, to the desire itself.
If I didn’t know how damn stubborn you were, I’d tell you to spend your time on something useful.
He thought of fragrant winds stirring the seas, of sunlight spilling across a Sunday morning, of a joy that had never belonged to him but that he imagined anyway—life as its clearest form. He let the images gather and arrange themselves, slotting into place like a fine project.
But who am I to judge? Maybe you’ll surprise me. Maybe you’ll manage it. Give it a shot.
And then came the sensation—raw. Energy that moved through him as if borrowed, demanded, forced into coherence by sheer will. His skin trembled; his body flickered between acceptance and rejection, right and wrong entwined in a way that stabbed at thought itself. It hurt to even try to name it. The border between himself and the world thinned until it shivered.
Miracles don’t exist. That’s why you might just stand a chance.
The markings along his arms stirred, veins of gold and bluish-green light weaving beneath the skin. They pulsed faintly, casting their glow outward in drifting motes, tiny particles rising and swirling like a cloud of fireflies in the dark.
Desire had taken form. It sat upon his palms, fragile, shimmering with a weight far greater than its size. His gaze locked onto it, unblinking, as though he feared it might vanish if he so much as breathed. There was wonder in his stare, disbelief, studying proof that it had bent to his will.
Then, faintly, the outside returned to him. The stale hush of the wooden room pressed in, reminding him of the silence beyond the walls, the barren emptiness. That single flicker of awareness, no more than a breath of distraction, was enough.
The light fractured. The glow dissolved into the air. And just like that, it was gone.
The strain lingered in him, every nerve like lightning beneath his skin. It weakened him, made his muscles quiver, yet the burning coursing through his body had grown so familiar it nearly escaped notice.
A low hum appeared from the adjoining room, a machine whirring to life. He let out a long, tired sigh before dragging his feet forward.
His hand found the switch, and the room bloomed in harsh yellow light. Every wall plastered with sheets of paper, scrawled equations, and half-erased diagrams bleeding into one another. Boards stacked with pinned fragments, entire constellations of formulas stitched together. Shelves sagged under the weight of jars, flasks, and containers, most of them only half-full, their contents cloudy or crusted at the edges. Less than an ideal workplace.
The center of the room remained without a floor, allowing the sprout to rest in a patch of dirt.
Then came more noise. At first distant, muffled through the old walls—but growing clearer. Footsteps scuffling, quick and uneven. A man’s voice cracked with urgency, words tumbling over each other, met by a woman’s sharper tone, high and strained, her fear breaking through in sudden gasps.
The door creaked open, spilling a thin strip of light across the floor. From the threshold stepped a tall, metallic figure, its frame bulky and uneven, as though pieced together from mismatched alloys. Three pairs of arms unfolded, each joint clicking faintly. Its copper-toned shell caught the light in a dull gleam, while two sets of artificial eyes glowed an uncanny green.
“There are three persons at the entrance, Orion,” it intoned, voice deep yet tinged with a metallic resonance.
Orion barely turned, his focus still locked on the scattered formulas. “Pretty late for visitors, Anything special?”
“They appear agitated. The man is carrying a child.”
That caught him. “…Hm?”
“A boy, from what I can tell. Evidence of critical injuries is visible.”
The words sharpened his posture. Orion pushed himself upright almost instantly, the lethargy stripped away. He strode toward the main door, the urgency pulling at him now with every step.
He shot a look back over his shoulder, determination breaking through. “Why didn’t you start with that?”
He glanced sideways, and the couple pressed tight against one another, hands locked in an iron grip that trembled yet refused to break. Their bodies clung so closely they seemed almost fused at the hip, desperation welding them together. Their eyes met his, wide and glassy, pleading without words, as though his gaze alone might hold an answer.
He forced his attention downward. On the table lay a small body, still and fragile, a mask strapped over its mouth, each shallow rise of the chest a fight. The sight clenched something in him.
From the waist down, the child’s form turned an unnatural pitch black, the lower torso and legs veined with jagged streams of red that pushed outward like roots of decay. The air stank of rot, acrid and suffocating. A presence bled from the wound itself, a shadow that seemed to crawl across the room and press cold into the veins of anyone near. Something was wrong, something that did not belong.
“Sprout, the scalpel.” Orion’s voice was clipped, his chest tight
The machine moved. One of its many arms extended, metallic fingers curling with surprising precision as it placed the instrument into his palm. Above them, its pairs of eyes adjusted, beams of sterile green light narrowing into focused halos.
“We are starting to lack hollow regulators,” Sprout said, its tone calm but edged with mechanical weight. “If the procedure consumes them all, there will be none left in reserve. We might have to use every last one on the boy.”
Orion didn’t look up. His hand hovered above the corrupted flesh, the scalpel trembling almost imperceptibly. “I know.”
His right ear twitched at the sound—low mumbling. He turned his gaze and saw her, the woman whispering a prayer into her trembling hands. Beside her, the man held her shoulder in a firm grip, his thumb rubbing small, desperate circles against her arm as if he could steady her by touch alone.
“Hey.” Orion’s voice cut gently through the air, and both of them lifted their heads toward him. Their eyes were raw, damp with fear, clinging to any fragment of hope.
“There’s no need for that,” he said, steadying his tone as much as he could. He forced his lips into a smile, warm, reassuring. “He will survive.”
For a moment, the tension in their bodies eased. The woman’s hands lowered, her breath steadied; the man loosened his grip, if only slightly.
Miracles do not happen, Orion thought, watching the boy’s faintly rising chest and the darkness consuming his body.
The hours dragged on, the silence broken only by the rasp of metal against flesh and the dull hum of Sprout’s lights. Each instrument now bore stains, dark smears, drying streaks. The smell clung to the air, gross and miserable.
Orion’s gaze remained fixed. His eyes tracked every nuance, every subtle shift, devouring the details as though missing even one would spell failure. The necrosed tissue—charcoal black edged with sickly red—pulled his focus, but it was the faintest alterations in color that mattered most, the tiny shades that revealed whether life resisted or gave way.
Each second, each breath was measured, his mind recording, calculating, shaping understanding out of fragments. He had to take it all in.
Such detail, he reminded himself, the thought echoing in his head. Tiny scraps, each insignificant alone, stacking higher and higher, building toward something greater. A tower, reaching ever upward.
“I need a star equalizer,” Orion said, voice low but unwavering.
Sprout’s lights flickered faintly. “We only have one left.”
“I need the star equalizer then.”
The machine hesitated. Silence filled the room, punctuated only by the faint hum of its inner workings. Orion turned his head, eyes narrowing at the metallic frame. Sprout’s face, smooth and featureless, offered nothing in return.
“We will find another,” Orion said at last, quieter. “Do not worry. I… get it.”
“…Understood.”
One of Sprout’s many arms extended. From a small cage resting on the desk, it retrieved a gem—glimmering jade, faintly luminous in the dim light. The stone pulsed faintly, as if it carried a heartbeat, its glow spreading pale images across the copper of Sprout’s body.
Orion pulled the gloves from his hands, the latex falling to the floor. He reached for the gem with bare fingers, and the moment his skin brushed its jade surface, a current surged through him—something old, a resonance that threaded itself into his veins.
The arcane seeped into him, and with it came flickers of memory—unbidden, sharp. A smile, candid and unguarded. Eyes that carried wisdom, passionate and steady. A warmth that had nothing to do with the gem itself but clung to it all the same.
His chest tightened, but he steadied his breath. Fingers closing firmly around the stone, he let a thin smile crease his face. “This will do it.”
The sun lifted itself over the reddish waters, its rays appearing sideways across Orion’s frame, bathing his figure in light and shadow. The cliffside stretched long with darkness that bent beneath the glow, while behind him, the solitary settlement stood quiet and small, a little spot surrounded by endless wastelands of blackened earth. At the edge of it, an old car rumbled.
“I did everything within my reach to keep the infection from spreading beyond what it already claimed,” Orion said, his gaze shifting toward the vehicle. He watched the boy resting in the back seat, fragile chest rising and falling with calm. “You will reach the North Citadel by afternoon if you take no detours. I will tell Dr. Silva of your arrival; he has the resources to remove it completely.”
The mother’s voice cracked, disbelief spilling out faster than her words. “You… You’re giving us your car? Truly?”
Orion met her eyes, the faintest shadow of weariness passing through his expression before he straightened. “I still have another vehicle, so yeah, I'm lending it to you until this is solved. I have to stay here, but there is no other way the three of you would reach on time by foot—certainly not while carrying such a burden.”
The father shifted uneasily, his hand still resting on the open car door. His voice cracked with a mix of exhaustion and frustration. “Are you sure he’ll take care of our son? Don’t take it as disrespect or anything, but… doctors these days are pretty damn stingy.” He let out a sigh.
“They sure are,” Orion replied, a faint chuckle escaping him, dry but not without sympathy. His eyes lingered on the boy’s calm face before drifting back to the couple. “Dr. Silva? I’d be glad if he even lets you set foot inside his building. Still…” He allowed himself another smile. “Just tell him I sent you. That will do the trick.”
The couple lingered in silence, their eyes fixed on him as though words might come if they only stared long enough. The wife broke, her breath hitching, tears spilling down her cheeks in a flood she could no longer hold back.
“I… I-I don’t know what to say,” she managed, her voice shaking as she stepped closer to Orion. The man followed, his jaw tight, a hard swallow catching in his throat as though each word he wanted to speak lodged there and refused to come out. “How… how can we ever pay you?”
Orion met their gaze, his own face softened. He raised a hand, placing it on her shoulder with reassurance. “Let’s discuss that once your son is cured,” he said gently, “once he can walk again without trouble. That will be enough for now, alright?”
“We just don’t get it… why?” the man finally asked, his voice rough, caught between disbelief and gratitude, as though the question had been clawing its way up his throat the entire time.
Orion exhaled softly through his nose.
“Well, I am a doctor, am I not? I’d be a pretty bad one if I just stood by and let that little dud slip away.” He thought of the light hitting his skin. “I think people should do whatever they’re capable of to the best of their skills. Anything less, and what’s the point?”
“Thank you, truly… I don’t even have words,” the man said, drawing in a shaky breath before forcing firmness back into his tone. “We will pay you. I am not accepting this for free.”
Orion gave a small shrug, his smile wry. “Well, if you can, ask if they’re selling more supplements up there. As you could see, we’re running short.”
Before the couple could answer, a sharp crack, followed by the heavy crash of timber splintering from inside the settlement, dust puffed into the air, and Sprout’s voice carried out in its unshakable monotone:
“It seems the roof has given in. Orion, I believe I reminded you a week ago that it required repairs.”
Orion winced as he scratched his head. “Yeah, it seems… we are also running short on that,” He muttered under his breath, then raised his voice just enough for the couple to hear, his expression caught between embarrassment and resignation. “Guess I’ll be adding that to the list.”
The couple exchanged a glance, and the sound of a small, honest chuckle slipped free.
They stepped back into the house after the car had vanished down the blackened road, the family’s blessings and hurried thanks still echoing faintly in Orion’s ears. Together, he and Sprout began the tedious work of putting the place back in order—sweeping debris, stacking toppled notes, sifting through scattered formulas, and salvaging what hadn’t been ruined by dust or collapse.
“Do you want me to print the results of today’s attempt?” Sprout finally asked, its luminous eyes settling on Orion. Though its tone was flat, the way Orion caught the machine’s gaze made something in his face twitch with faint contempt. Was that a jab?
“Attempt eighteen-oh-nine wasn’t completely unsuccessful, dare I say,” Orion muttered, tapping his chin with an ink-smudged finger. “I managed to grasp my arcane conduits—at least for a moment. And I can certainly say I feel closer to figuring it out, but…”
“We are not looking for sparkles,” Sprout interrupted, its voice unflinching, green light sweeping faintly across Orion’s face.
Orion tapped the metallic carcass. “Well said.”
They continued cleaning until all that was left in the ground was the bud, miraculously intact. Both of them stared at it for a while.
“Have you thought of any possible solution?” Sprout asked.
“Honestly?” Orion leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose. “I’ve got no other idea beyond just… continuing until it clicks, I guess.”
“That seems rather illogical.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Never said it made sense, did I? I’ll just keep tweaking it until it works.”
There was a pause, the faint hum of the machine filling the space before Sprout spoke again. “I thought you didn’t believe in—”
“And I stand by it,” Orion cut in, voice sharpening just enough to go along with a shrug. His eyes met the twin green lights that watched him. “I think you don’t quite get the difference yet.”
“I suppose you are right,” Sprout conceded, its voice humming low in the still room.
“Then tell me,” Orion leaned forward, elbow on the armrest, eyes sharp. “Do you think I’m wasting our time?”
“No.”
His brows furrowed faintly. “Why not? You just said I contradict myself.”
The machine’s response came without hesitation, as if something had been made clear. “Dr. Faith was illogical, yet her results satisfied her. I find no reason to deny you the same chance.”
For a moment, Orion said nothing. The silence stretched. His expression faltered, a shadow of grief crossing it—unbecoming, but familiar, as though he were looking at something Sprout could never perceive.
At last, he forced a smile, faint, unsteady at the edges. “Well… thank you.”
A faint crackle broke through the air, sharp against the quiet. Orion’s head lifted as static bled from somewhere within Sprout’s copper body, the metallic frame suddenly alive with the faint hiss and stutter of a signal.
“There’s a transmission,” Sprout announced, the sound reverberating from its chest.
Orion blinked, skeptical. “I thought the satellite didn’t work anymore?”
“Apparently,” Sprout replied, “it had merely fallen into disuse.”
The static rose, splitting into jagged fragments before aligning, words emerging with urgency.
[ Emergency broadcast ]
Orion immediately straightened.
[Significant increase of arcane activity has been detected in the central territory of the United Nations. Levels are surpassing all recorded measurements since Daybreak. It is advised to evacuate immediately and proceed east. ]
The transmission hissed, the last syllable trailing into static once more, leaving the room in its heavy silence. Orion’s hand clenched unconsciously.
“Can you scan for anything unusual?” Orion asked, his tone clipped, already suspecting the answer.
“Negative,” Sprout replied without delay. “I attempted earlier. Something is blocking me out.”
Orion’s lips pressed into a thin line. He turned from the machine and strode toward the door, each step echoing faintly in the wooden hall.
The morning light had not yet fully claimed the land. To the far horizon, opposite the rising sun, the sky seemed to bleed of color—faded, pale, a thin wound of decoloration stretching across the heavens. It was faint, sitting exactly where his sight strained to its edge.
Closer, where sunlight had not yet reached, movement stirred. Shadowy figures—scores of them—scattered across the blackened fields, their outlines twisting, limbs bent at wrong angles, their very shapes warped. They fled from the coming dawn, shrouded in darkness, each one little more than a smear of deformity against the land.
“Something is really wrong,” Orion muttered, his pace quickening as the unease in his chest hardened into resolve. His footsteps thudded against the worn floorboards until he reached the closet tucked against the wall.
Inside, three things waited: a weapon, seemingly old; a set of clothing, folded neatly as nothing else in the house; and a case—white and green, its edges reinforced, an eight-pointed star emblazoned across its surface, the symbol gleaming faintly even in the dim light.
Orion shoved what he could into a backpack—supplies, notes, scraps of data worth saving—while Sprout mirrored him.
At last, Orion’s hand settled on the heaviest item: a worn book, its cover etched with the image of a white trunk crowned by golden leaves. The leather was cracked, the edges frayed, but the emblem still gleamed faintly. He held it for a moment, thumb brushing over the tree.
Turning to Sprout, he lifted the book slightly, his expression hardening. “No matter what, this can’t get damaged. You understand?”
“Affirmative.”
With a hiss, a panel in Sprout’s copper frame slid open, revealing a narrow compartment. Orion let the book drop inside. The machine closed it seamlessly, the emblem disappearing behind copper plates.
The ground began to quiver, a low vibration creeping up through the floorboards, mild enough that the house groaned.
But Orion froze.
“Is something wrong? I can feel your heart rate dramatically increasing,” Sprout asked, its artificial lights flickering faintly, the closest thing its featureless frame had to an expression of surprise.
Sweat slid down Orion’s face, each drop catching the dim light. His body trembled as though the quake were inside him, deeper than the shifting earth.
“I can’t explain it…” His voice rasped, eyes darting toward the horizon. “But it’s just… it doesn’t feel right.”
Without another word, they pushed outside, feet crunching against the brittle earth as they made for the only vehicle left. The horizon painted with the faint glow of a sun that now felt much too far away.
And then, at the edge of their sight—
The sky broke.
She felt it all at once, overwhelming and seamless, as if her being had been split and stretched across five others, not separate but united, souls interwoven into one. Their warmth pressed against her, steady and constant; their care wrapped around her like threads of light; their affection flowed freely. She felt them, but more than that—she felt herself.
For Twilight, it was almost unbearable to comprehend. To be so appreciated, so wanted, so undeniably loved—it defied the structure she had built around her own perception. It was strange, alien, and every instinct urged her to reject it, to call it unnatural, to recoil from its intensity. She wanted to tell herself it was wrong, that it was something that couldn’t possibly be true.
But she couldn’t.
Beneath the flood of sensation, there was only a harmony that resonated deeper than thought. She felt not doubt, not fear, not resistance—only rightness.
Energy—too much to contain—rushed through her in waves, saturating every nerve until her very horn vibrated with the pressure of it. Near-limitless power flooded her being, her senses collapsing into something greater, the sky and earth blurring into a single expanse as she lost the boundary between herself and the world. The torrent struck outward, crashing unrelentingly against the daughter of the moon. Her screams of panic had long since vanished, drowned beneath the overwhelming surge of warmth and unyielding affection that left no room for fear.
Time stretched. Minutes bled into one another as the storm of energy finally began to ease, the brilliance calming. Their bodies, suspended weightless in the current, descended at last. Six figures collapsed gently onto the floor—some sprawled on their backs, others on hands and knees.
“That… that was…” Rainbow managed between ragged gasps, her chest heaving as her arms stood up toward the sky
“SuperduperweirdbutamazingandmarvelousandIcan’tbelievewhatjusthappened?” Pinkie blurted in one breathless tumble, weakened by the effort it took just to keep breathing.
Applejack let out a hoarse laugh, her palms pressing hard into the ground as she pushed herself upright with trembling arms. “What she just said,” she muttered, tipping her hat back with one shaky finger before collapsing into a half-sitting sprawl.
“Is… is everyone okay?” Fluttershy asked softly, her voice wavering, though she was the first to pull herself upright surprsingly. Every step seemed to demand a lot, but she pushed forward regardless. One pastel-yellow wing half-unfurled to steady her as she crossed the short distance to Rarity. She offered her hand with a small, trembling smile.
“Oh, darling, thank you ever so much…” Rarity sighed as she took it, leaning gratefully against her friend. A worried crease formed on her brow as her eyes darted across Fluttershy’s face. “I feel as though I’ve aged a decade… I haven’t, right?!”
Fluttershy shook her head, a shy smile tugging at her lips, caught somewhere between reassurance and the edge of a laugh. “No, Rarity. You haven’t.”
Slowly, one by one, the girls pushed themselves upright, shaking off the exhaustion with wobbly limbs and deep breaths. Only Twilight remained on her knees, unmoving, her gaze fixed in impossible awe. She clutched the crown in both hands, staring down at its glow, then to the fallen princess in front of her.
The princess’s form was no longer the same as when the battle began. The mantle of endless night and the gleaming silver armor were gone. In their place was skin of a deep, rich tone, shrouded by a simple mantle of white. Her midnight hair flowed gently, calmer, its countless stars twinkling softly. Her face, her whole being, radiated serenity, her eyes closed as though she were finally at rest.
She looked peaceful.
All at once the emotion crashed over Twilight again, stronger than before, and she felt the tears spill freely, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She tried to brush them away with trembling arms, but the harder she wiped, the more they came, refusing to stop. Her breaths hitched.
A hand settled gently on her shoulder. She turned slightly to see Applejack kneeling beside her, eyes steady with worry and warmth. Behind her, the others gathered close, their faces marked with the same concern, all of them leaning toward her.
“Is everything okay, sugarcube?” Applejack asked, her voice soft, careful.
“I… I don’t know,” Twilight stammered, clutching the crown tighter. “I didn’t think… I never thought… do you—do you understand this?”
Rainbow tilted her head, frowning in confusion. “This what?”
Twilight’s gaze darted between them, her voice breaking as she whispered, “This feeling.”
“The one that makes your ears twitch?” Pinkie piped up suddenly.
“…what?” Twilight blinked through her tears, sniffing.
Applejack gave a tired little smile, patting Twilight’s shoulder again. “She's talkin' about happiness.”
Twilight let her gaze fall to the ground, eyes unfocused. For a moment, she seemed elsewhere, her mind caught in the weight of everything she’d just felt. Slowly, her breathing steadied, the haze in her expression easing as her focus returned.
Applejack’s hand remained firm on her arm, steadying her, and with a gentle tug she helped Twilight rise. Twilight’s legs wavered at first, but she held on, standing tall again. When her eyes finally lifted, they met the rest, and a small, genuine smile broke through her tears.
A beam of golden light spilled across the ruined threshold, scattering shadows as if the night itself recoiled. From that radiance stepped Princess Celestia, like embodiment of dawn.
Her white tunic gleamed, golden accents that shimmered with every subtle movement, matching the radiant halo of her crown. Behind her, wings unfurled in broad arcs, each feather kissed with hues of fire—orange, gold, crimson, and pink all flowing like the colors of sunrise itself. Her hair and tail, too, carried those colors, cascading in long waves that seemed to move on their own with a soft brilliance.
The ruined castle seemed smaller, less dreadful, as her figure filled its broken gate.
All six of them instinctively straightened, their exhaustion forgotten in the presence of Celestia’s radiance. Each girl bowing her head in reverence.
Except Rainbow.
Her knees buckled a little too quickly as she bent down, and the body of the sleeping princess slipped from her focus. Luna’s body dipped, thudding softly against the ground before Applejack compensated the weight with a grunt. The sound echoed far louder than it should.
Every eye flicked toward Rainbow at once. She froze, her face heating under the collective gaze, and for once her bravado failed her.
“I—uh—” she stammered, cheeks blooming crimson as she ducked her head lower.
“It’s alright, my dear,” Celestia said softly. A small wince crossed her face, yet she forced a smile—no, not forced. The smile was real, layered with too much at once.
Her steps carried her forward until she stood over the sleeping form of her sister. For a moment she simply looked, as though her heart could not quite believe what her eyes confirmed.
So many years…
Her horn glowed with calm, steady light, lifting Luna’s body in a gentle cradle of magic. With her other hand, she reached down, pale fingers brushing across the darker tones of Luna’s cheek. The touch lingered, tender—her thumb tracing a line that trembled with the effort of restraint as tears threatened to fall.
Still cradling her sister’s form in a gentle field of magic, Celestia stepped toward her student. Twilight stood wide-eyed, the crown still trembling faintly in her hands. Before words could catch up to her thoughts, Celestia drew her in, wrapping her free arm around her in a warm, enveloping embrace.
The shock broke. Twilight's arms clutching tightly, almost desperately. She pressed herself into the embrace.
“There are no words to describe how proud I am of you,” Celestia whispered, her voice thick with feeling, her chin resting gently atop Twilight’s head, avoiding her horn
“Celestia…” Twilight breathed, her voice breaking as she melted deeper into the hug.
“I knew you could do it,” Celestia murmured, pulling back just enough to meet Twilight’s tearful eyes.
“But… you told me it was just a fairytale” Twilight asked, her voice hushed, still trying to piece everything together.
“That’s what these things are?” Pinkie chirped, pointing at the necklace around her neck, its faint glow still lingering.
Celestia’s gaze swept over them all, her expression tender. “I only told you to open yourself to others, to trust in the bonds you could share. And so you did.”
“I knew of the signs,” Celestia said, her voice low but steady, eyes still resting on Twilight. “For weeks now, I felt the return of Nightmare Moon drawing closer. I knew it would be you who had the strength, the magic, to face her. But only if…” She paused, her smile softening, “…only if you opened your heart to others.”
“And now,” Celestia continued, her magic still holding Luna’s body close, “you have reunited me with my sister once again.”
“Your WHAT?!” all six girls screamed in unison, their voices echoing through the ruined castle. Rarity’s cry, of course, came just a touch louder.
Celestia let out the faintest chuckle, her expression soft but unreadable. “That is a story I shall tell you later. First… we must return to Ponyville.”
“I agree,” Applejack said, stretching her sore shoulders with a wince. “My bones need mighty rest after all this.”
“I am worried there might be no time for rest,” Celestia said at last, her voice quieter than before, though it carried enough weight to stop them in their tracks.
“Why? I-Is something wrong?” Fluttershy asked, her tone shrinking, that nervous tremor slipping into her words.
Celestia’s eyes lowered, her usually unshakable calm faltering. “It seems that using the Elements has caused… events I could not have foreseen.”
The air tightened around them. To see their ruler—their Celestia—speak with uncertainty, even doubt, was something none of them had ever imagined. For the six who had just seen the world itself bend and break, this glimpse of unease in her eyes was somehow the most unsettling of all.
“I will explain as we go,” Celestia said, her tone brooking no hesitation, “but we must leave now.”
The six exchanged quick, uneasy glances, but none argued. Wordlessly, they gathered closer around her, their bodies still aching. Celestia lowered her head, her horn flaring with radiant gold, brighter than the broken stones around them could bear.
The light expanded, sweeping over them, warm and blinding, wrapping each of them in its embrace until their outlines blurred into brilliance.
And then, in a single burst, they were gone, carried aloft within a pillar of light that streaked upward and vanished into the heavens.
“So you’re saying the magical line patterns were completely shuffled around while also expanding into new ones?!” Twilight blurted out, her words tumbling with breathless urgency. The others stared at her blankly, their faces all variations of bafflement, clearly not grasping a single thread of what she meant.
“Even beyond that,” Celestia said, her voice steady but heavy, “look up.”
They did.
Above the golden column carrying them through the skies, the constellations themselves no longer held shape. Familiar stars were scattered like spilled ink, their old patterns torn apart and rearranged into something alien. Stars unknown among them—countless new stars, brilliant and cold, stitching the heavens.
Even the moon was wrong. It gleamed as if fractured, mismatched pieces forced together, like different versions of itself imperfectly combined. Its face bore scars of new craters, lines and shadows where none had existed before.
“Is this why we can’t use our wings now? I thought we were just too exhausted,” Rainbow asked, her voice carrying a rare twinge of unease.
“I believe it is more than simple fatigue,” Celestia answered, her tone calm. “Your bodies are struggling to comprehend the new flows of magic. They must adapt, and in time the strain should fade. The Elements themselves also exacted a heavy toll on you.”
Twilight’s brow furrowed, clutching her arm tighter. “So it isn’t permanent…?”
“No,” Celestia reassured, though the solemn look in her eyes betrayed the weight of her thoughts. “But it will take time. Even with my strongest transportation spell, it is taking far longer that it has ever taken me. We will arrive in around thirty minutes.”
The girls exchanged glances once again—some uneasy, some resigned—as the golden pillar surged ever onward.
Twilight’s heart sank as the golden pillar carried them closer. Ponyville—or what should have been Ponyville—was a place she barely recognized. Houses lay tilted at impossible angles, some half-sunken into the earth, others shattered outright. Hills rose in places where flat ground had always been, and where meadows once stretched, lakes glimmered dark and sudden, their surfaces still and alien.
Her gaze drifted upward, and the wrongness only deepened. Massive floating islands hovered in the air, shadows gliding slowly across the land below. Far higher still, enormous rings arced through the heavens, crossing one another in colossal lattices that cut the sky itself. And at the distant horizon loomed jagged mountain ranges that no map of Equus had ever known, peaks clawing against the clouds like scars across the world.
Her chest tightened further as she looked down at the townsfolk. Earth ponykin, pegasi, unicorns—all of them hurried through the streets. Their steps and wings carried them with almost sickening haste.
But there was no panic.
Not a scream, not a cry, not even confusion.
People moved around carrying the injured, helping those who couldn't move by themselves, lifting whatever seemed useful.
At the center plaza, where once Ponyville’s fountaine stood, there now sprawled rows of improvised beds—makeshift cots, blankets stretched over crates. And upon them rested not just ponies, but beings Twilight had never seen in all her studies, not even in the most obscure tomes of Canterlot’s archives.
Short, stocky men lay among the wounded, their bodies compact and broad, but without wings, horns, or tails—only the odd simplicity of a single pair of ears atop their heads. Nearby, taller figures loomed, with even bulkier frames, their muscles corded under strange clothing. Tusks jutted upward from their jaws, and their skins bore weird hues, even for her standards.
Some bore traits of mammals. A woman whose head carried the pointed ears of a fox; another with the rounded, twitching ears of a rabbit; others with more unique alterations—men and women whose faces carried more than two eyes, blinking out of rhythm, or whose limbs split into thirds, extra arms hanging heavy at their sides.
“What in tarnation…” Applejack’s voice cracked, low and trembling as her wide eyes swept over the broken town. Her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the plaza, past the warped houses and alien shapes. “The farm—I have to go find them!”
Before anyone could stop her, she broke away from the group, her steps pounding against the uneven ground. The others were still frozen in place, It was only when Applejack’s big figure began to blur into the crowd that they realized she was gone, swallowed by the chaos.
Pinkie darted off toward Sugarcube Corner. “The Cakes—they’ll need me!” she called over her shoulder, her hair frizzed with panic.
Rarity’s steps were slower, shakier, but no less determined. “Sweetie Belle… she must have been at the boutique.” Her voice cracked as she turned toward the warped streets, the plaza already fading behind her.
Celestia’s expression darkened as she watched them scatter. She shifted Luna’s form carefully in her magic before turning back to Twilight, her voice heavy with gravity. “I must go back to Canterlot. Reports have already reached me that the situation there is even more dire than here.”
Twilight’s breath hitched, eyes wide. “Are… are you sure? After all this—after what just happened—”
Celestia stepped closer, her golden aura casting warmth around her student. “I know it has been a great deal to take in. I am not asking you to shoulder all of it. But I do need your assistance, my faithful student.”
Twilight’s fingers curled tighter against her chest. Celestia’s presence had always carried its own gravity—when she spoke, it was as though the path ahead had already been chosen.
A gentle touch lifted her from the spiral. Celestia’s hand brushed against Twilight’s cheek, coaxing her to lift her face. Their eyes met, and Celestia’s smile radiated a warmth that melted through the unease.
“You will be fine,” she said softly. “You are not alone, after all. Trust in them—they will help you.”
Twilight swallowed, her throat tight, but she managed a small nod. “…I know.”
Celestia’s smile deepened, touched with something more. “I don’t only mean them, if you didn’t catch that.”
Twilight blinked, confusion flickering in her eyes just as the air shifted and Celestia dissapeared in a beam of light.
Both turned their heads at once. From beyond the plaza, past the fractured streets and tilted houses, a man’s voice rang out—loud, commanding, cutting through the noise of the crowd.
“Move everyone with signs of necrosed tissue to the tents on the left station,” the man’s voice carried over the plaza. “I want reports on all available personnel with medical knowledge, and a list of whatever equipment and resources we still have to work with.”
Dozens moved in response, mostly ponykin but others among the strange new beings as well. They pressed close around him, speaking over one another, thrusting notes, tools, even scraps of fabric into his hands. His eyes never stopped moving—darting across every corner of the chaos, catching details no one else saw, always a half-step ahead. He ordered and offered reassurance in the same breath, giving as much as he took.
No tail, no wings, no horn, only one pair of ears once again.
Twilight watched him, her brow furrowing. He wasn’t taller than her—around five and a half feet at most—but carried himself with weight. His build was steady, practical, his skin a medium tan not unlike her own, though a shade lighter.
A cold-desert coat, its base stark white broken by sharp black and yellow clothing under it. traced with muted green details. Dust clung to the fabric.
Two loose bangs framed his face, hanging straight until the chin and softening the sharpness of his movements. The rest of his hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, bound by a metallic ring shaped like a star—four pointed edges jutting outward, glinting faintly whenever the light touched it. His forehead was bare and visible, lending an openness to his expression.
His hair was a blend of earth and sun, strands of deep brown woven with lighter streaks—blonde, even golden at certain angles, the colors shifting subtly as he moved. They matched the hue of his eyes: round, luminous, golden. Beneath them, thick brows arched.
He looked gentle—kind, even.
The weight in his eyes, the heaviness clinging to his shoulders. He looked tired.
Strapped across his back rested what resembled a compound weappn, its frame sleek, made of pale white and muted grey metals, humming faintly with an energy Twilight couldn’t immediately place.
He was there—walking straight into them. His steps slowed, and he stopped a short distance away, his gaze locking onto Twilight, then sliding briefly to Rainbow and Fluttershy. For a few seconds, none of them moved, their eyes meeting his. His expression shifted as though wrestling with something too tangled to name—shock.
His mouth parted, a breath caught, but words failed him. He stood there.
His gaze lingered on Twilight the longest. Even as he looked at her directly, his golden eyes seemed caught between two states—focused as if staring through her into something else entirely.
“Is your name Twilight Sparkle, by any chance?” he asked at last, his tone measured.
Twilight blinked, throat tightening. “…Yes?”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slowly before straightening his posture, the man’s weariness hidden beneath sudden formality. “Follow me. A kid called Spike needed to find you.”
The name struck her harder than she expected. Before she even realized it, her legs carried her forward—at first a step, then another, until she was running, her heart pulling her faster than her thoughts could catch up.
Spike’s small body looked so fragile in the cot they’d laid him upon. His scales had lost their luster, dulled and cracked, and across his shoulder ran a jagged, vicious cut. Twilight’s breath hitched as her eyes locked on the wound.
The flesh around the injury festered, a black substance creeping outward from the gash like veins of rot, devouring the healthy skin. The air above it seemed to shimmer faintly, carrying with it a smell that twisted her stomach. With every shallow breath Spike took, the corruption pulsed, spreading fraction by fraction.
“Spike…” The word broke from her lips in a whisper, trembling, her throat closing around it. Her hands shook as she reached for him, stopping inches away, terrified to touch, terrified not to.
Despair hit her like nothing she had ever known—worse than failure, worse than fear. It was the raw, hollow ache.
She couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She hovered helplessly above him, trembling, as her voice cracked into panic.
“What is happening?! What is that?!”
The man stepped closer, his eyes scanning Spike’s wound with a grim, practiced focus. His tone carried no comfort, only blunt truth. “Hollow rot. An infection. I’ve never seen it interact with non-human people before.”
Twilight froze, the words ringing in her ears. “…Non-human? Human?! What is a human? Who are you?!” Her voice climbed higher, raw with fear and anger, her tears blurring her vision.
He lifted his gaze to hers, golden eyes heavy, and shook his head. “I know little more than you right now.”
She felt it all pressing in at once—the sickening absence of control, the pressure building in her chest, the trembling hands of Rainbow and Fluttershy clutching at her shoulders in a desperate attempt to comfort her. Their warmth barely registered Twilight dragged her hands across her own face.
“Calm down. It will be okay.”
His voice cut through the chaos, steady yet gentle,, There was a crack beneath the calm—faint, almost imperceptible—they settled something inside her, easing the tremor of her breath.
“…I… I can’t lose him… I can’t,” she choked out, her body folding inward as the words spilled raw.
“And you won’t,” he answered firmly, the conviction in his tone drawing her gaze to his golden eyes. “But you need to calm down. If you don’t, I can’t help him—and neither can you.”
Okay… okay…” Twilight whispered, forcing the words out as she dragged air into her lungs. Her chest rose and fell in shaky rhythm, her eyes never leaving Spike’s fragile form.
The man gave a single nod. “There are six others I’ve seen infected with it. But in all of them, including Spike…” his eyes flicked to the kid again, brow furrowing, “it seems to progress slower than in humans—my species.”
He paused, lips pressing tight as his own words caught up to him. His golden eyes searched the place, the broken plaza beyond, the strange gathering of creatures. His tone shifted, disbelief. “Do I… need to make that distinction? Am I…” He swallowed hard, the faintest crack breaking through his practiced calm. “…am I on Earth?”
“What in Celestia’s name is that?!” Rainbow’s voice cracked, shrill with the weight of everything she couldn’t process.
The man glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression flickering in realization. “Okay… not Earth. And not humans by relation.” His voice steadied, though it carried a strange curiosity now. “I assume Celestia is… like a god here?”
“I… guess?” Fluttershy answered, her words timid, more question than confirmation.
He gave a short nod, then turned his focus back to Spike, his tone slipping back into commanding cadence.. “Alright. I don’t have a way to treat him properly beyond sedation and sutures. Given the current rate, we have between three and four days before the infection begins to cause catastrophic damage to his body.”
Twilight’s breath caught, her hands trembling as she clutched her brother’s arm. “Will… will that be enough to find something?”
He looked up at her, the edges of his golden eyes softening as a small, confident smile broke through his weariness. “More than enough. I assure you.”
“Alright,” Twilight said, drawing in a deep breath. Her horn felt like dead weight, the familiar spark of magic absent, but that was a battle she would deal with later. Now, there was only one path forward.
“There are a lot of books in my library,” she continued, voice firming with every word. “If you say we have the time, then let’s go there and discuss everything. It would be better for everyone if we understood exactly what is happening.”
The man tilted his head, curiosity breaking into something lighter. “You’re a scholar?”
“More than anything in this world,” Twilight replied without hesitation, her tone carrying pride despite the tears still staining her face.
At that, he beamed—an unguarded, genuine brightness. Twilight couldn’t help it; a small, determined smile tugged at her lips in return.
“Best news in a while,” he said, warmth lingering in his voice as he extended a hand toward her.
“My name is Orion. Orion Faith.”
Twilight blinked at the hand for a heartbeat, then placed her own into it.
“Twilight,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Twilight Sparkle.”
Written by a human in Ellipsus.