Some stories were never meant to be, usually for several reasons. The most usual of these is that nopony wants to hear about them, for a story without an audience is not a story, but a ghost, a forgotten spectre that haunts equinity as one of its phantom limbs, as another “if”, or a “perhaps”. Eventually they become food for other, more popular stories, thus entering again into the collective circulatory system of the pony race, conveying nourishment to be consumed around campfires, before bedtime, and with particularly strong apple cider. Such is the life of the Unheard Stories.

This is not one of them, obviously.

But at the moment when Reg barged into Chillburn’s house, to hit the wall of silence that reigned there, he wished from the bottom of his heart that it would be.

“Chillburn!” he shouted, running into the kitchen, then upstairs. “Chillburn!”

Fall arrived soon after, panting slightly as he walked into the living room. Everything seemed to be like it had been a few hours ago. Everything except a familiar looking brochure that lay on the table and which clearly had something written on the back. In some other context Fall’s brain would’ve identified it as a shopping list, but in the living present a bloody head wouldn’t have stood out better to him. He approached it carefully and picked it up with his horn. It was the same brochure they had had in the train, the one including “everything you need to know about Ponyville”. On the back, there was something even more interesting.

Right about then, Reg emerged from the bedroom, his face a yearbook of bad omens. “The window here has been broken. There isn’t any shards on the floor, so I guess Thunderlane didn’t bother with the front door when he left. Either that or whoever took Chillburn also has wings.”

Fall didn’t seem to hear him. His lips were moving slightly as he read the note again, or tried to.

“What is that?” asked Reg, climbing down the stairs hurriedly.

“You think Chillburn might have some enemies over Saddle-Arabia?” said Fall, not taking his eyes of the note. “Perhaps some who have been dead for twelve centuries?”

“What?”

“Take a look,” said Fall, floating the paper to Reg, who caught it in the air so violently that it almost ripped in half. He stared at it for fifteen seconds.

“This is ancient Arabic,” he stated, as if that was the worst punchline in existence.

“What does it say?” asked Fall.

Reg looked at him dumbfoundedly. “How should I know?”

“You study the bucking language!”

“It has been dead for over a millenium!” bursted Reg. “I only got interested in it last year! I’ve never seen even half of these signs! Ancient Arabic is an immensely complex tongue, there are maybe three ponies in Equestria who could–”

He saw the light lit in Fall’s eyes at the same moment he felt it burning at the back of his own skull.

“Axiom,” they said in unison.

“But it’s impossible,” continued Fall immediately. “It makes no sense: how could he… and why?”

“I don’t know…” said Reg, studying the note fervently again. “...but it must be him. I just know it. Look, doesn’t this resemble his hoofwriting?”

Fall glanced at the writing that now flailed in front of him, and chose to ignore it. He couldn’t even say where one letter started and another began, or if there were any alphabets in the first place.

“That’s insane,” he said.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Reg. “Who else could do something like this?”

Fall had no answer to that, but accepting the alternative simply didn't do at the moment. “Okay, it might be him, although it isn’t. What do we do now?”

Reg looked at the note again. His eyes drilled into the eloquent lines of ink, demanding them to unravel before his growing anxiety. He could recognize some words, a syllable here and there, even an exclamation mark. The problem was that ancient arabic was a very contextual language: a word might have a dozen meanings, and ultimately its definition depended on every other word in the text. For a pony who loved crossword puzzles, the note would have been an intriguing challenge, and in other circumstances Reg would have put the kettle on and dedicated his rump to the confines of an armchair for the next four hours or so. Right now, his brain fought to squeeze those hours into minutes.

“It… might be about where he took her,” he managed after a while. His temples were already starting to ache magnificently, and his brow would probably be frozen in an eternal frown.

“They,” said Fall. “Where they took her. It might be a she.”

Reg gave him a look, but he had no brain cells to spare for arguing. Instead, he returned back to the message.

Fall, like a pony who can do nothing but really feels he should at least pretend to, started walking around the house. Who knew, maybe there were more notes somewhere? You were supposed to be searching for clues in these situations, right? That’s what Sherlock Hooves always did, anyway. In the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was the basket on the table. Fruits, pancakes and other food lay scattered around it, obviously waiting to be put inside with the apple cider and the napkins. So she was going somewhere, and nopony packs that much food for themselves alone. Didn’t she mention some guest when I visited her earlier? Does that have anything to do with this? And why Thunderlane was here in the first place? Is any of this relevant?

It probably wasn’t, but Fall’s mental gears either had to process something or tear themselves apart in idling. The sight of the pegasus’s broken wing still haunted him vividly. Who could do something like that? Axiom? No way… He’s a nasty piece of work alright, but this is something else. He would have needed to use magic anyway. That would be unthinkable. Although… He is the professor of Oriental Cultures and Language. Among other things… He got back to the living room where Reg’s ears were steaming, metaphorically for now. Fall saw it best not to disturb him, so he headed upstairs. The bathroom was as unexciting as it could be, and beside the broken window, the bedroom didn’t have anything much to offer, either. He almost gave up when a noise carried past the flailing curtains and shards of glass.

He peeked outside and saw a crowd of ponies nearing the house. Even from afar, he could make out the figures of the rainbow mare and, to his amazement, of Thunderlane. Two other stallions were carrying him and a third, looking like a doctor, was engaged in a one-sided argument with him. Thunderlane seemed to be unaware of his presence. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re as crazy as Reg. He pulled discreetly from the window and trotted downstairs, where Reg was mumbling to himself.

“There’s a crowd coming this way, that Rainbow chick and Thunderlane included,” he said.

Reg’s eyes, wide and wild, snapped to him. “What?!”

Fall stopped in the stairs, baffled. “Uh, I said there’s ponies coming here.”

Reg’s pupils shrunk. “Oh no no no no nononono!” he muttered while galloping to the hall, the note flying by his side.

“Hey, where are you going?!” blurted Fall, running after him.

“How far were they?” asked Reg as he got to the door, which he cracked open carefully. “They mustn't see where we are going.”

Fall trotted behind him, face blank. “What? Why?”

“I translated the last sentence,” said Reg as he peeked outside. “It was the easiest one. Do you know why? Because ancient Arabic has words that can mean snow, heat, or cows, depending on the context, but they had this one word that was dedicated completely to death.” He glanced at Fall, eyes aflame. “The last sentence reads: ‘Death… if others invite the chicken.”

“The chicken?”

Reg shook his head. “I’m not sure about that one. But ‘Death if others’ sounds pretty clear, yes? Now, do you know how to cast a simple concealment spell?”

Fall stared at his face that balanced somewhere between pure panic and unyielding conviction. The absurdity of the situation was stunning.

“Reg, this is crazy!” he hissed. “We can’t just steal evidence like this!”

“What would they do with it that I can’t?” said Reg, looking outside again. The sounds of the crowd were drawing nearer by the second. When he looked at Fall again, there was desperation in his eyes that would have won the Golden Hind award any day of the week, save for the fact that it was real. “They’d only get Chillburn killed and you know it. But we two have a chance. Please.”

This is one of those moments, isn’t it? thought Fall, surprisingly calmly. Either I say yes or hope that I can hold him down long enough for the others to arrive. Either I try to save what’s left of this friendship or I do the right thing. The choice balanced itself on an edge of a knife, but not in the present, for the decision had been made years before. It was about time for it to land.

“We better head for the woods ASAP,” said Fall. “I can’t keep the spell up for longer than a few minutes.”

Reg smiled, for the longest time Fall cared to remember. It was the last thing of him he saw before the light from his horn covered him in a shroud of shimmering air, practically making him invisible to an unobservant eye.

“Thank you,” said the spectre before Fall.

It was surprising how quickly one could lose the sense of time with a blindfold on. Or with one’s heart beating like a drum. Or when the agonizing screams of one’s lover kept on ringing in the beehive of one’s mind, over and over again. In those moments, it was more than expected for an internal watch of anypony to stop caring. Chillburn, for example, was certain that she had been laying on this floor, which probably was made of ice, the way how cold it felt, for at least a week. The trip here might have taken another two. However, the silence that rang in her ears clearly had never even started, but arched over time itself. She would have screamed it away, but the gag hardly let her breath.

During the last hour, or day, or whatever, she had gone through every shade of rage, terror, lunacy, panic, grief and pretty much every other emotion she had in store. The record had of course started all over again after finishing. At the moment she was in the middle of the track called “Grief That Makes You Wish You Had No Heart,” which wasn’t as comical as it sounds. The tears still kept on coming, which felt impossible. The edges of the blindfold were already drenched and stiff with salt.

Distant steps boomed in her ears. Small part of her mind noticed how well it echoed here, wherever that was, and that the sounds seemed to come from underground. Her shivering intensified along with their approaching, but the ropes wouldn't let her even wriggle properly. She could only listen for the steps to grow louder, then fainter, then even louder and, finally, terrifyingly, stop. They stopped for a long while.

“It’s a shame I don’t have a camera with me,” said a voice like ash, like chalk, like death. “I’m sure the editor of the Playcolt would shave her mane for the sight you at the moment.”

Amidst terror, rage kindled. The sparks spread around, and the fear smoldered.

“Mind you, some other stallion might get such filthy thoughts, watching you right now. Indecent thoughts. Unthinkable thoughts.”

The panic burned before a wildfire of fury. She was still shaking, not like a leaf, but like a barrel of gunpowder travelling in a cargo hall of a speeding, flaming train.

“Of course you don’t have to fear such things from my part,” continued the voice, with some pride. “My intentions concerning you are nothing short of platonic.”

The bright red rubber ball in Chillburn’s mouth came dangerously close to being split in half. She was hardly moving anymore, but a sane person wouldn’t have touched her with a stick. It was a shame that none were around. Her heart practically stopped when he smoothed her mane with a casual hoof. The touch had this eerie sense of serenity to it that inflamed her hate so greatly that it almost burned out.

“I never told you this… but there is a certain similarity of looks between you and… somepony I used to know.” The hoof travelled down, past the neck and via her right shoulder to her chest. “Perhaps that is why I fell for you in the first place: for the sake of a mirage. A ghost. A dream.” The hoof stopped at her pelvis.

With deep confusion and relief, Chillburn felt the straps of the gag let loose on her neck. The ball, stained in a thick layer of saliva, dropped on the floor with a wet smack. She coughed a few times and gasped, but after a moment a breath of air washed over her ear, and she knew that he was right above her. As a distant echo of her own heartbeat, she could hear his. The whisper that followed washed even that into nothingness.

“Could you recite me a certain poem? For the one last time?”

With baited breath, Chillburn slowly lifted her neck towards his face. Her nose hit his cheek, her lips found an ear, leaned closer… for her teeth to bite down as hard as they could. A scream followed, bouncing off the walls like a ball lightning, and when he finally managed to pull free, she could feel something warm splatter all over her face. There was a piece of flesh trapped between her teeth. It tasted sweet.

“Bitch!” he wailed, staggering backwards. “Damned bitch, bitch, bitch bitchbitchbitch–aaarraragha!!!” He fell to his knees, shaking all over while trying to stem the bleeding with a hoof. The other half of his face and suit were already covered in blood, and a small pool of it was forming under him. He ground his teeth together, panting and muttering painfully.

Chillburn spat the piece of ear from her mouth and smiled. “Did I get the accent right? Perhaps I should give it another go? Or wasn't that platonic enough for you?” Somewhere deep inside, she knew she was supposed to be terrified to her very bones. But the words kept on coming, like foam from a boiling kettle with a lid on. “Maybe you should try to take advantage of me, yes? A helpless mare like myself, all at your mercy! Try giving me your cock next, we’ll see how that works out for y–”

She stopped breathing. An unknown force squeezed her throat like a vise, the grip turning ever tighter by the second. Even through her blindfold, she could see a glimpse of a grey halo in her rapidly dimming vision. With a violent tug she was yanked into the air, where she hang like a wet towel, futilely kicking with her tied limbs. The sounds that left her lips were not from a pony. Nothing but white, blind panic filled her mind that screamed for oxygen, craved it even more than it feared that her neck might break from the way she was thrashing in the air. Every kick had slightly less energy to it, every choking gasp a little bit less volume, until suddenly there was none. She floated in the air, only her hind legs twitching faintly. It was only then that Axiom let her go.

She crashed on the floor, but the first breath came only a few seconds after. It was simultaneously the most precious and painful thing in existence. Her throat was a crushed origami, barely holding together from the force of the pitiful wheezes that travelled through it. Her tongue lolled over her lips, which still had the taste blood on them. That was the final push that made her retch.

Axiom stared at her, panting and holding the ruins of his ear with a hoof. The bleeding had somewhat subsided, but still a steady trickle of blood flowed from the torn auricle that would never look the same again. The pain was just about bearable now, yet all it took was one wrong move and it bloomed rich all over again. His blood-soaked grimace deepend a tad more as he stood up.

“A fiery one up until the bitter end, I see. I should’ve known, of course. A regrettable folly from my part.” His horn lit again, picking up the gag. “It won’t happen again.”

Just enough clarity had returned to Chillburn’s mind so that she could comprehend the meaning of the straps aligning behind her neck. “Axiom…” she wheezed and coughed. “I’m pregn–mhhmhmmhh!!!”

The gag muffled whatever little could be comprehended from her sentence in the first place. Still she tried, for she wasn’t fighting just for her own life.

“Save your breath,” he said tiredly, trotting away. “Nopony can hear you here. And even if they could, they’d just think it was some ghost, and would run away. This place is cursed.” A petal of the bloody flower by his temple shivered, and so did he along with it. “I would know… My Architecture of the Ancients had a most comprehensive chapter on the Old Castle…” He vanished in one of the stairs leading in the cellars. With any luck, there might be something there he could use to tie his wound with.

Chillburn fought to the point where she almost choked herself in order to draw his attention, but the steps faded inevitably. She was alone yet again, except that she wasn’t, and that made everything worse. That made everything as bad as it could get, like ultimate stakes always do. I should’ve screamed it at his face the moment he removed the gag. That would’ve got him to his senses. But no, I just had to bite him, hurt him, taunt him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid… I have to survive, I have to get alive from here, no matter the cost. No matter the cost. No matter the cost…

Reg couldn’t figure it out. For his life, he couldn’t make sense of the curly, black lines, the meaning of which spanned over centuries. A millennium of tradition stood before him, and all he had to show was an unfinished master’s thesis and year’s worth of studies on the topic under a pony who thought pedagogy was some sort of an animal. This was all put to work by a lot of stress, which wasn’t completely new to him as such, except that it was, for this was about Chillburn. He mentally scratched another useless translation of a random line. “You have long for one, starting when this” just didn’t cut it, although he just knew that he was onto something there.

“They are gathering in the yard,” observed Fall, who was following the events in Chillburn’s house from behind some bushes, on the edge of earshot. “The rainbow mare is talking about something with Thunderlane.”

“Ah-ha…” muttered Reg. All he had caught form that was the word “something”.

Fall squinted and pricked up his ears, trying to get a better idea of what was happening on the other side of the river, but all the voices blurred into one mass of murmur on the way, and he had no idea if there were any officials present or if everypony had just come for the show. There was about thirty of them now, and more seemed to be coming as the word spread around. Even now Fall could see a group of five more joining in, although this time the rainbow mare flew to them as soon as she noticed them. Thunderlane followed suite, supported by two stallions. An intense discussion seemed to stem between the seven of them.

“I think they’ll start searching soon,” said Fall, looking at Reg, who was laying on his stomach on the grass. “And judging by the looks of it, they’re not going to be short on volunteers.”

“Great, great,” said Reg. Pearls of sweat glimmered on his brow.

Fall bit his lip. He had made his choice, but how many times he had to repeat it before the end? “I think we should join them,” he said.

“Sure, sure… Wait, what?” Reg blinked and looked at him. “No! Why?”

“Because we’re hindering a criminal investigation by withholding that note, for starters. Second, it might help them to know who they should be looking for: I’m not saying Axiom is behind this, but giving out his description wouldn’t be unhelpful, right? Thirdly–”

“They’d only lock us into some cellar again!” snapped Reg, standing up. “Think about it: they judged me guilty once, what stops them from dumping this one on me, too? With you as my accomplice?”

Fall reared his head in disbelief. “Why’d they do that? We were in the Mayor’s office when this happened.”

“They’d still think we have something to do with all this,” continued Reg. “We can’t afford to be pushed aside now. Who else around here knows ancient Arabic? Who?”

“There are other ways to find Chillburn,” said Fall patiently. “For all we know, that note might be a false lead. And discounting your little brawl, what reason have we given them to think we have anything to do with Chillburn’s disappearing?”

Reg shifted his weight between his legs. “There was… another incident, before you came. In the local orchards. I may have… given out a rather sinister image of myself.” He averted Fall’s gaze and added: “I can’t take that risk.”

Fall studied him quietly for a moment. “My third point was that we’re not getting anywhere alone.”

Reg slumped and and sat down. “I’ve failed her,” he whispered. “I was given one chance to help her, to make up for my mistakes, and everything I know ends up being useless. I’m useless.” He fell to his side, his muzzle barely missing the note on the grass.

“Hey, don’t you play dead on me!” snapped Fall, nudging him sharply with a front leg. “The only reason I didn’t knock you over in the house a minute ago, or in Canterlot last week, or half a year back, was that you’re Reg Syllable! You don’t play dead, not in the ring, not in Axiom’s surprise tests, not ever! You get up and get on with it!” He kicked him again, a bit stronger this time. “Tell me what you’ve got so far. Let it all pour out, every translation, every hunch and gut feeling you got!”

The engine called Reg sagged, coughed, and began listing words like strings of Hearth's Warming Eve decorations. At this point, the topography of the message was more or less a part of him.

“There’s the death thing, that’s the only thing I’m sure of, and that I need to go there alone, or at least somepony needs to. Before that, it’s about settling into new lands, finding bargains, closing circles. A rock is lifted from something, but it might be a cow, or a metaphor for the raising of the taxes. End and beginning repeat a few times, but I don’t know in which order. The evening star finds its place beneath/above the fall/rise of the eclipse, a unit of of time is mentioned, I think, and it leads to somewhere… bad.”

Remarkable nonsense, thought Fall, but honesty wasn’t the key to victory here. “Okay, there’s a lot of words that I recognize. That’s a start, definitely.” He breathed in, then out, and closed his eyes. “Suppose it is Axiom who left that message in the hopes that we’d be able to read it. Like you said, it’d make sense for him to reveal the place where he took Chillburn. If the message isn’t meant to misguide us, it can’t be about ransoms or anything: usually kidnappers want to get that part clear enough.” He opened his eyes. “So the real question is, where he might’ve taken Chillburn around here, even hypothetically?”

“It can’t be just a random spot in the forest, or some barn or something,” whispered Reg with a faraway voice. “That’d be impossible to find with these directions, that’s for sure.”

“So it must be a special place, like where two ponies met for the first time or something like that,” said Fall. “And if the message was meant for you, you should know that place!”

Reg stood up. “It can’t be very far away, and it must be somewhere quiet.” His glazed eyes glinted. “The orchards?”

“Why is that place special?”

“There was the…” began Reg, but then he shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. There was nopony else around, anyway. I think.” He rubbed his temple, frowning deeply. “The Cafe? No. The pegasus training yard? Maybe… but that’s very close to the town…” He growled in frustration. “I don’t think there’s any such place nearby that would be special for me.”

“Then it must be something else,” said Fall. “Some other well-known location. Something grand: Axiom loves theatricality. If it’s him,” he added quickly.

“But there is nothing but fields, orchards and forest around here!” wailed Reg. “Nothing but plain countryside for miles and miles around…”

“Wait…” said Fall. “What did the note say about the evening star?”

Reg sighed. “That it finds its place beneath/above the fall/rise of the eclipse, or something like that. That’s the version that makes some kind of sense.”

“Eclipse… The evening star… Fall…” repeated Fall, as if in a trance. “Isn’t the Old Castle of the Royal Sisters nearby?”

Reg’s face fell blank. “It is. Right in the middle of the forest, if the stories are true. And its other name is–”

“–The Evening Star!” burst Fall. “The one celestial object that the Sisters share! The one that dimmed after their downfall, only to lit again when Princess Twilight was crowned!”

“Yes yes it’s all very symbolic and neat,” said Reg urgently. “How do we get there?”

The excited smile vanished from Fall’s lips. “I don’t know.” He turned towards the Everfree forest. There was still sunlight to spare, but even now the pathways were littered with shadows cast by the thick foliage that hadn’t given up to the nearing Autumn yet. In a few hours, they’d be left to do with their horns. “There should be a path leading there, right?”

“Sure there is,” said Reg grimly. “The place has only been abandoned for a millennium. I’m sure the locals visit it all the time.”

Reg looked at him over his shoulder. “They’d probably know the way, at least.”

“In fact, they do,” said Reg, smiling strangely. “And they’re going to lead us right there.” Before Fall’s questioning face, he picked up the brochure and opened it in the middle half, revealing an elaborate yet surprisingly accurate map of Ponyville and its surroundings. The location of the Old Castle, “where guided tourist travels have been planned in the future,” stood out like a sore spot in the flank.

“I’d say that whoever wants us to find Chillburn made sure that we do just that,” said Reg.

“And that’s exactly why we are not going there alone,” said Fall sternly.

The brochure dropped to the ground. A quite followed, resembling one during which storms gather strength.

“I thought we went over this already,” said Reg, very calmly. “It’s Chillburn’s life we’re talking about here.” And my foal’s, he added in the deepest confines of his mind.

“I know the stakes as well as you do,” said Fall, just as calmly. “Just as you have to know that it’s a trap. This is not about money or anything like that. I’m not talking about some ‘bad feeling’ – if suspicious smelled of anything, this would reek of it.”

Reg stared at him over an ever-widening pit, where all their shared years were sinking at increasing velocity. “I’m not risking her life. Not for anything. You can come, but only because you know when to back away. Don’t you?”

Fall shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not this stupid, Reg. You’ve done some stupid things, but this is serious.” He took a tad steadier pose. “We’re not going alone and that’s final. And that comes from the best friend you have.”

The pit was now deep enough for Reg to hear the howling gales of reason diving into it, screaming as they disappeared into the adamant abyss. He stared at him for four heartbeats longer, closed his eyes, and sighed. “You’re right. That’s what a friend would say. And they’d be right.” He turned around, looking at the crowd on the other side of the river. Some lavendel pony, apparently a unicorn, was talking to them all. The searching would start soon.

Fall trotted carefully to his side. “Sometimes, nothing’s harder than doing the right thing.” He put a hoof on his shoulder. “We should go. There might not be much time left.”

Reg stared ahead, his gaze forlorn. He started walking, with Fall following a few steps behind.

“Oh, wait, the brochure,” said Reg absent-mindedly, turning quickly around and walking past Fall. “Almost forgot it…”

The moment he passed him, a jolt travelled through Fall. He knew its meaning only a few seconds after. It was a familiar feeling, one he had experienced many times before, but never outside the ring. It was etched in the way Reg’s movements changed, to the subtle ways he breathed differently, how his muscles tensed. In a different context, Fall would have reacted immediately. As it was, the blow hit him like a mallet. An experienced boxer like him could take a beating twice as bad and still know what day it was, but only when he was ready for it. Coming from the blue, it knocked him out like a rookie.

Reg watched him fall on the grass with a handsome bruise already forming on his temple. A sucker punch like that was an abomination, but some things went beyond the gentlecolt’s code and, apparently, beyond friendship. With a final glance at his stunned friend, Reg picked up the brochure and wandered into the Everfree forest.

The thing about the Unheard Stories, as we already know, is that they were never meant to be. This phrasing is not completely accurate. Rather, they were never meant to be after they were not meant to be, which may sound paradoxical if one stubbornly wishes to cling to conventional theories of time. But the Unheard Stories do not follow the same rules physical objects do, mostly because they are not physical but also because they are not objects. To the contrary, as stories, they enable the conception of time so familiar to some forms of life, like ponies, who naturally tend to conceive time through some geometrical analogy, be it a cycle or a straight line. Here is where stories become so convenient, for they are essentially a way to structure things.
Naturally, they can also be a way to demolish things. That’s what the Unheard Stories are for: to demolish and be demolished in turn, so that the cycle of stories can go on unhindered.
Sometimes things don’t work out this way.

Sometimes, very rarely, an Unheard Story escapes the cycle.

Once escaped, an Unheard Story is Lost. It’s neither living nor dead, less than a shadow or a ghost. It doesn’t belong. There is no name for it. According to many influential philosophical theories, it doesn’t even exist.

But it does. That’s why it escaped.

To Exist.

Professor Axiom stared at an empty wall. He had lately become very good at it. Hours could just fly by when he sat down to stare. There were moments when he prided himself on the fact that a lesser pony would’ve gone insane probably years ago, trying to achieve the same adamant patience that by now was a second nature to him.

The colonel was talking to him again, which Axiom found strange, for he was supposed to be safely tucked under the bed in that horrible Inn in that backward village. Still, Axiom could hear his voice clearly inside his head.

Is there brandy in the vicinity, by any chance?

Axiom blinked and looked around in the dim winecellar. Whatever was left of the wooden racks harbored a few rat’s nests and dirt, not to forget some green glass shards. “I’m afraid not,” he said. The grey eyes returned back to the wall.

Blimey.

There was an eerie silence. A rat entered the room, noticed the grey pony, and chose to keep its distance.

What if he doesn’t come? said the voice.

“He will,” said Axiom. “The instructions were simple enough. Even a disaster like Reg could follow them.”

That is not what I meant.

Axiom frowned. “Why would he not come? I was very clear what would happen if he didn’t. I even broke that pegasus’s wing like you told me to. He will come.” Another pause ensued.

If he doesn’t come, the Story will be left unfinished. Again.

Axiom ground his teeth.

That Must Not happen.

“I know,” said Axiom through gritted teeth. “No need to remind me about that. Reg will come. It is meant to be so.

Good.

Axiom was left alone with the wall once more. With enough concentration, he could see these little patterns running all over its moldy surface. There was a great likelihood that they were trying to tell him something, he felt.

You will kill her if he doesn’t come, right?

Axiom muttered something.

What was that?

He swallowed. “Are you sure that is necessary?”

The Story Must Not be left unfinished.

Axiom flinched. The colonel was right. Still… it would be such a mean thing to do. Quite unlike him, really. He hesitated.

“What do you think?” he asked from the wall.

You’re asking from a wall?

There was a silence.

“...No?” said Axiom finally. “A slip of the tongue.”

How shall it be, then?

Axiom sighed. “Fine. If Reg doesn’t arrive in” – he consulted his wrist watch – “twenty minutes, we’ll resort to the precautions. But not before.”

Very well. Only one thing, though.

“Yes?”

Who are “we”?

The castle loomed in the centre of the clearing like a sleeping giant, slumping in the fading light. It occurred to Reg that it looked very different in reality than in all the pictures that he had seen of it in books. For one thing, it looked old. Very old. It was amazing that it was still standing, kind of, that’s how old it looked. It was bound to be filled with unsteady stairs, rotten roofs, loose stones and all kinds of other natural traps. Of course it would also be filled with unnatural traps, some of which were sure to be still operational, there was no other way it could be. And Axiom knows every inch of the place. A convenient coincidence? No way in hay.

He jumped at every shadow that crossed his way as he galloped across the clearing. The front doors were wide open, so he circled around the place to look for another entry. There were plenty of those, or at least there had been, a thousand years ago. The kitchen entrance was buried underground. The other two portcullis had collapsed. At several places the outer wall had crumbled to the ground level, but the stouter inner wall was mostly intact, and the doors there were all rusted shut. Or barred from the other side. In either case, if I break them, I might as well light some fireworks to announce my presence. In the end, he closed his eyes and teleported himself blindly through one of the windows. Surprise moves were a powerful strategic tool, after all. Unfortunately there was no floor in the room he appeared in.

Well, at least I didn’t materialize in the middle of a table or a chandelier, he thought while his body recovered from the fall. A bush of roses had softened the impact at the low cost of driving a few dozen spikes sticking from his coat. He picked off the most painful ones and sneaked deeper into the castle, his horn glowing with the thinnest layer of magic. Reg had read somewhere that in ancient times, noble unicorns fancied settling their disagreements in magical duels. Speed had been the key factor then and so it would be now, he thought while peering around a corner. The first spell would win five times out of six, it had been said. That had widely been regarded as the optimal outcome from everypony’s perspective, and not least from the audience’s. The duels of the earth ponies of old might have been hours long, even days if the opponents were equal enough, and certainly only a few things could match in beauty the elegance the aerial clashes of the pegasi long past. But while there was no denying the fact that the unicorns always had the shortest fights, they were also the fiercest, most intense, and most violent. From all the gifts the ponykind had been blessed with, magic was the strongest one, no matter how one chose to look at it.

One wrong move and it’s all over, thought Reg as he peered around another corner. The corridors seemed endless and they were all miles long. The silence was vast as an ocean, filling every nook and granny along with Reg’s ears. Wherever he went he felt like being watched. What is his game? What does he want? Did I hit Fall too hard? The questions rained upon him from every side in an everflowing tide, craving to pull him along, but he held tight to the bridge of reason, built between hate and fear. Thinking of metaphors helped him from not thinking what would happen if Axiom happened to see him first. First he’ll break my horn, just so I can’t–

A scream. Chillburn’s voice. Drenched in pain.

He ran. Another scream, or perhaps a dying echo of the first one, bounced along the corridors and halls, through the broken ceiling and into the red sky. He ran. He didn’t need to worry about traps, for he knew he was running head on into one. That mattered none. Only running mattered, and his only regret was being so slow, sluggish, heavy; he practically crawled even though his lungs were on fire, even though he could hardly see where he was going, even though–

He was there. So was Axiom, and Chillburn, too. They saw him a second later he saw them, which was enough for Axiom to stop the burst of energy aimed at his heart. A dull grey dome flashed as the magical currents met and negated one another instantaneously. The next clash was even brighter, blinding all the ponies momentarily. When he could see again, Reg found himself pressed against the wall around the corner of the corridor where from he had burst in. He was panting and shaking.

“Is that a way to greet a Professor?” shouted Axiom jollily from the room beyond. Reg hadn’t got but a glimpse of it, but it looked large, like a hall, perhaps even like the throne room.

“It’s over, Axiom!” responded Reg, trying to listen if he was moving. “The whole village is coming in in a few minutes. They’ve probably surrounded the castle already.”

“No they haven’t,” called the merry voice. “I know that because you know that I always keep my promises.”

There was the faint tingling sound of magic being used, followed by Chillburn’s painful gasp. There should’ve been no way Reg’s muscled could’ve gone any tenser, but they did.

“There’s nothing you can win by hurting her,” he said, his voice balancing on the same bridge he himself did. Planks were falling into the abyss in their scores under his feet. “You have to admit it, Axiom: even on your scale, this is insane. Pointless. Do you even know yourself what you’re striving to achieve here?” Keep him talking, keep him busy… There’s got to be a way to get him farther from Chillburn…

Axiom’s laugh told a tale of a pony who wouldn’t have been happier anywhere else. Somehow, it was immensely more horrible than the manic cackle Reg had been expecting.

“As always, you miss the crucial factor of perspective, Reg my lad. History ought to have taught you that much.” Hoofsteps echoed in the room, and Reg was dying to get a peek of what was happening there. The trouble was that it would be the certain outcome of such a reckless move. “I know exactly what I want,” continued Axiom. “The question is, do you?”

He has finally lost it, thought Reg. There’s no telling what he might do next. I have to–

“Answer the question, Reg.”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” he cried, unable to help himself. “Did you already forget who left that note? A criminal mastermind such as yourself?”

“Is that why you came? Because I asked you to?” After a moment of silence, he continued: “You are right, though: this is pointless. There is no dog that would answer to a whistle more obediently than you do to her squeals.”

Behind the corner, Reg had stopped shaking, from moving altogether. He had become a statue, a painting the eyes of which would follow you only if you followed them.

“Do I have to provide proof for my theory?” asked the scholarly voice. “Nothing would be easier, you know.” The faint tingling started again. Chillburn gasped in anticipation of pain.

Reg stepped around the corner, his horn was dim like his eyes were. In the centre the room, which indeed appeared to be the remains of the throne chamber, Axiom smiled at him, holding the tied, gagged and blindfolded Chillburn in the air like an old rag. Her ears pricked to his direction, and she cringed.

“Let go of her,” said Reg with a colorless voice.

Axiom shrugged. “As you wish.” His horn dimmed, and Chillburn collapsed to the floor. She curled immediately to as tight of a ball as her ties would allow.

To protect her foal, said Reg’s brain. My foal, added his heart. “I’ll kill you,” finished his mouth.

Axiom kept on smiling. “Prepare to queue, then. In the meantime, could I tempt you to settle down and relax?” Following his own advice, he sat calmly down next to the trembling Chillburn. A light grey halo lingered around his horn.

Reg stared. “What do you want?” he managed. “What could you possibly want from me or her?”

“Nothing,” said Axiom. “It’s the story that is in control here. Not me, not you, not she, but the story.” He tilted his head slightly. “I had thought you would’ve figure that out by now.”

Reg bit his tongue to quell the instinct to rage in the face of madness. No future lay in that direction. I need to get down to his level to solve this. Somewhere under all that lunacy is the grumpy Axiom I know. Pull the right lever and he’ll jump out like a jack in the box.

“Just to make sure we’re all on the same page…” said Reg carefully. “What story are we talking about?”

Axiom rolled his eyes. “Dear Celestia… You really are a thick one, aren’t you?” He chuckled heartily and laid his hoof absentmindedly on Chillburn’s shoulder. She stopped trembling immediately. “Not that I’d expect anything less from a pony who can’t separate Arabic writing from an ink stain.”

Reg forced himself to smile. “Heh. True that.”

“All this has happened before, you see,” said Axiom, smoothing Chillburn’s coat. “There’s nothing new here. A beautiful mare playing with a young fool’s heart like it was ball of yarn. How could you not see the end of it a thousand miles ahead?” He snorted. “Well, we all know the answer to that one, don’t we …”

With baited breath, Reg took a step closer to him. “Seems like you know the script well enough.”

“You have no idea,” said Axiom quietly. His eyes were lost on Chillburn’s blindfolded face.

Reg took another step. Aside from briefly wondering why Axiom had some rotten cloth wrapped over his ear, he was meticulously trying to solve an equation including his right hoof, Axiom’s glowing horn and the twelve feet that separated the two. As of yet, the result was negative. “We both fell for her. No shame in that, all things considered.” Ten feet. “Still, kind of harsh to tie her up for that.” His leg rose to meet the ninth feet. “I mean, she’s pregnant and all.”

Axiom’s hoof stopped its caressing. His eyes rose slowly to Reg. “What?”

Reg blinked. “You didn’t know?”

On the floor, Chillburn made a noise that might have signified great relief or ultimate frustration. Axiom looked down, and for a moment his horn dimmed.

Reg’s hoof landed, only to rise immediately: six feet. He reared up mid-motion, aiming at Axiom’s jaw: three feet, two, one…

A flash of light. A clean hit. Reg heard the sound of cracking bone snap like a whip. He had packed enough force to his blow to bring down a seizable brick wall. Axiom staggered backwards, his legs colliding with one another, the whites of his eyes turned up. The sight of his jaw would’ve made anypony’s stomach turn. There was a short, whining sound, and then he collapsed.

Reg panted, and sweat dribbled down his brow. He felt light as a feather, but his legs wouldn’t move properly. Also, there was this warm sensation spreading on his chest. It didn’t matter though: he had won. He had won. He bent over Chillburn to free her, but for some reason his horn wouldn’t work, and even his hooves had trouble obeying, the way how they were shaking. It took him a minute to get the blindfold off her.

She looked at him in the eyes, and the air shimmered between them. Then she looked down. And she looked. And she looked. Dreamily, Reg followed her gaze.

There was blood. Lots of blood, pulsing from the gash in his chest. The edges of the wound had charred black. The warmth was seeping away, giving room for numb cold. Reg sat down, blinking.

And then he died.

Author's Notes:

Yep, that's one way to end a story.