Out the door and to the left, leaving behind the shouts of horror and sounds of the fight. I tried to force myself to walk slowly, maintaining a leisurely gait, but with every step I took, I sped up until I was at full gallop through the stone halls and old tunnels.

I was panting when I finally went down the ladder to the hall of the Silver Bells, cursing the staccato of my hooves against the hard stone. Down to the abandoned hall damp and empty, and further still.

Gideon’s key opened the secret door he showed me, and I started again at the abyss of the shaft.

I breathed. Proper, deep breaths.

In and out.

There would be no cloud to carry me down today, and no griffons either. I dropped my saddlebags, and unwound a long rope and took my time to tie it to a sconce. Hoof and mouth, in a proper fashion. And then, fixing my coat and adjusting the horseshoes, I began my long, arduous descent into the darkness.

Down, down and down, until my legs burned with effort and skin stung with the rope burns until finally, my rear hooves touched the stone.

Tightening my cape, I entered the eerie silent hall, the cave of Boreas.

There I sat down, breathing, counting minutes tickling ever so slowly by and trying not to think about how I would make my way up again. Everything was primed now, all was remaining was to wait, for Gideon's stupor to pass and his horror to be substituted by anger--

An explosion rocked the castle, echoing even down where I sat, to the very roots of Gormenghast.

And there we go.

The crimson tracery grew silent -- all the winds were summoned by the prince, possessed by his ire and paranoia. And while the pattern of the spell was bared, that gave me a chance to sneak in.

I reached into the pockets of the coat and produced a small vial, and shook it up, examining the few ounces of black and red inside.

Royal blood of Griffinstone -- the key to griffon kingdom. The royal blood that the Arimaspi gathered, the prince's -- now made the king -- feather I stole as I played doctor with him, and the claw of griffon, taken off Graven’s corpse. That plus the mark of Boreas beating against my chest -- that was all the ingredients I needed to breach the invincible protection of the ancient spell.

I dabbed a drop to each of my hooves, and swallowed the rest, feeling the cold power of Gideon's blood stir the mark of Boreas in the gem pressed against my skin. I breathed, deep, set my spirit, and put Graven's claw upon the first name in the pattern. The corpse-flesh of the dead limb gave subtly under my teeth, filling my mouth with taste of rot, as I cut into the winds, making the first step into the spell. And then another, and another.

One misstep, one turn or zig or zag I remembered wrong from when Galad had guided me through the pattern, and I would be dead, ripped apart by the magic that suffused the pattern of the spell, and neither griffon claw in front of me, nor the royal blood on my hooves, nor king's feather in my mane would protect me.

The path was long and tiring, filled with the howl of the wind and blinding flurry, sparks of magic and immense pressure of Boreas power I could feel with my entire body, but in the end there was not much to it.

No lightning struck me when I stepped into the centre of the spiral, where only the blood of Grover was allowed. No winds tore me apart when I took the idol into my hooves, ripping it off its pedestal, perhaps the first time in centuries. No ice froze me solid, no griffon claw cut me in half, no Power ripped my soul from my body.

But still, the whole of Gormenghast shuddered, dungeons to highest spires, and the chill from the golden cup in my hooves seemed to reach into my bones even though the Bluette's coat.

The pitch of griffon shouts had changed as I climbed back up, and snuck through the secret halls and abandoned corridors. They felt it too, that shuddering of the world when the heart of Griffonstone was taken, and now their screeching took a cadence of panic.

I could hear the sharp crackle of thunder and howl of the storms, as Gideon summoned fullness of his power, scouring through the castle, striking down any who would stand in his path or try to slow him down.

They were looking for the Idol. Uncoordinated, confused and panicking, they were all searching for their Idol -- they were all searching for me. And whoever they found with their Idol would not live long enough to be thrown off the towers of Gormenghast: she’d be ripped apart on the spot.

In short -- it was all just as I planned.

The shouts and the tremors fell behind and above, only felt by the faint trembles of the stone beneath my hooves and rare screech, as I crept back down, though the secret passages and servant’s ways, feeling my way through the pitch-black darkness, and trying not to slip on the damp stairs.

And then, before I entered prison, I paused. The Count has left me the package as we have planned, so now everything was about to come together.

This was the endgame. If I were lucky, a mistake would just mean I'd be dead. The Count too. If I weren't -- all I have done so far may have been undone.

Everything had to go right.

I dropped the cape and saddlebags, shivering in the cold air of the secret passage, and took the time to check my looks. My coat was matted, slick with sweat and dirty with dust. My mane was a mess, my tail -- grimy and dishevelled.

The next thing was the Idol.

I dug out the baby-blue gem, and dropped it into the cup, right beneath the red crystal in the centre.

It shone softly with an inner light, lit up by my soul and the drop of the magic of Boreas imprinted on it. It was but the shadow of the real thing, like a hoofprint compared to a hoof -- not something to stand up to serious examination.

I grabbed one of the bags and breathed.

Not the way she had taught me, not the proper deep breathing to steady the mind and prepare the body, but the ragged, running-for-my life, wild animal breaths as if I never stopped on my way to the creature, and then I pushed the door open, and ran, full-gallop into the corridor.

"Hey!"

I froze, cursing myself. I should've checked behind the door, I should not have been so confident everygriffon would be upstairs, searching for the idol.

I turned slowly back, to face the two guards who moved over to intercept me with the easy calm of big cats that have been fed recently.

"What are you doing here, little pony?"

I did not have time for this.

“I’m...” If I still had the paiza... But the Prince’s silver bracelet was still left in the saddlebags behind the secret passage. "...I'm here on Prince's orders!"

They looked at each other, hesitating. “Come with us little pony. We’ll sort it out.”

I took a breath. In and out.

"Do we have to do this?" I tried to make my voice sound tired and earnest, but my disguise was meant for the creature not for them. The dishevelled mane, the erratic breathing, it just did not work for this. "I'm really here on Gideon's request. I just forgot my paiza."

"Yes, little pony, we have. Come with us -- or we'll have to get rough."

"O-of course." I raised my hooves in a placating gesture. An imperceptible shiver ran from the tip of my muzzle to the tip of my rear hooves, as I dropped my bag. "I'll go. Just d-don't hurt me.”

His posture relaxed, and they looked for a second at each other, amused by my compliance. In that moment, in the second their eyes were off me, I surged forward, turning up between them, and my shoulder threw one of them into the wall, just as I bucked the other with my hind-hooves. I felt his wing slide out of the shoulder-joint where I hit him, and he stumbled and fell, crumpling into a heap, and I reared and fell on the other before he would stand up, and then again. He jerked, spasmed and grew still.

The air smelled of blood, the heavy iron tang I could feel on my tongue and my stomach spasmed again with a sickening mix of nausea and hunger.

I twisted back, where the first griffon was already standing up, baring his claws and raising his one whole wing, ready to shout an alarm.

He was one of Gideon's - young, proud, eager. I couldn't fight him and win, not without my--
I pushed the thought away. What I had or didnt have didn't matter. I had to win anyways -- there was no other way for me.

Besides, I had something better than any spell or power: Fear.

I forced my lips into a rictus grin and stepped forward. Like she did, a flowing, liquid step, like a stalking leopard, like a slithering snake, my tired muscles groaning in protest.

"Don't worry, little bird." I said softly, "I won't enspell you."

He tried to gather himself, shock from seeing death up close still holding him frozen, and reflexively he stepped back.

"I won't turn your blood to flame inside your veins."

Another step. He wanted to shout, to call for help, but nothing more than half-whimper came out.

"I won't break your bones."

He stepped back again, putting his claws into a protective gesture.

"I won't burn off your wings, I won't rip out your throat..."

He took the last step back, almost crying out with fear when his back touched the cold metal bars of the prison.

"He will, though."

He twisted, trying to see behind him, to step away, but from behind him hands have already whipped up from the darkness, wrapping around the griffon's neck, and the arimaspi's long, thin fangs sunk into exposed flesh just over the gorget.

Silly birds. Never watch where they step.

The creature’s throat bulged as he drank, after centuries of hunger, his fill of life's blood, and the muscles rippled with strength, bulging and filling out until the struggling griffon's neck snapped.

Releasing the body, the arimaspi turned to me. "Nice showing, little pony.” His narrow, serpentine tongue flickered out, picking up the last specks of blood off his muzzle. "Yes, little pony, nice showing indeed. But what is that noise above, yes, the mighty wings and the shouting, even here I can hear them, and why do you come here now? Is it what I think it is?"

"Yes. I came to bring you what you want." and to tell you what you fear. "I've done as you asked."

"Well then," His arms swelled with muscles, and he grabbed the bars of his prison and ripped the door out of the frame with a short, powerful tug. The metal screamed and gave. "Come in, little pony."

He rose up, his spine straightening, the curve of years of supplication undone with firework-like crackle, his chest expanding and growing sinewy with muscle.

"Give it to me, pony. Give me what I want."

"N-no." I gulped and сlutched the bag tighter in my hooves. "Release me first! You gotta hurry, they're right after me."

"Don't—" A savage backhand threw me clean of my hooves, and my back smashed into the bricks of the cell. "—tell me what to do, little pony. I have the power here! Me!" Before the spots have cleared from my sight, he snarled a spell, and his chains snapped up from the floor, black energy crackling around them, and latched onto my every hoof.

He picked up the Idol that fell out of my saddlebag, and his nostrils flared when he sniffed the air for the cold power of Boreas. “Thank you little pony,” he flashed his yellow teeth. “Now to release you...” He reached for me, pulling on the threads of his spells, and I held my breath.

Nothing. No pain to flare in my chest, no green or gold magic on his horn. It worked!

I laughed, crazy, bubbling laughter born of exhaustion and exhilaration. "I've got no magic, creature. There is nothing for you to steal. You have no power over me.”

“I have power enough to kill you anyway, little pony.” His hand twisted into a fist, his paw the size of my head, fresh muscles rolling under his skin like a wave, but his voice was hesitant. “Without your magic you are nothing, yes, you are nothing.”

"But the guards are drawing near," I lowered my horn and prepared to dodge, "and the Prince has been in bad spirits as of late. You have the power -- but do you have the time?”

Do you have the guts?

He looked at me wildly, his ears flickering to the sounds of griffons screeching in search for the idol. He was bigger than me, and stronger by far. He could've killed me even without the stolen magic, but it would've taken time, and perhaps I would've hurt him in the process.

Plomo o plata, lead and silver: The arimaspi was no exception from his own rule. I could see his eyes shift, as his fear and greed pulled against caution and anger, his nostrils flaring, his coat growing damp with sweat, and giving me the final, bleating cry of anger, he ran.

I took a breath, licking the blood from my rebroken lip.

The Prince would follow him, taking his flight as a sure sign of guilt, and with no magic but the fake idol I gave him, my money was on the Prince. Either way, one of them would end up dead, and I would have the time for the next part of my plan.

Kicking off the horseshoes off my hooves, I wiped the ashes off my forehead, feeling the subtle warmth of my magic building back up. My stomach spasmed again, my body feeding on itself to for energy Bluette drained out of me. Though this part of the process was hardly as pleasant as the other.

I breathed and I waited.

Minutes ticked by, darkness and silence, and nothing to focus on but the raging spasms in my belly. I grit my teeth and bore it best I could. It did pay off to know how to go hungry after all.

Finally, my magic built up a little, I whispered a spell -- a charm, one of eighteen. Nine long nights it took me to learn it. Nine long days and nine long nights spent on the wind-swept gallows in the Everfree Forest, while my Princess thought I was at my parents’ house. Nine long nights, and each of them worth it: With barely a whisper of power the fetters burst from my neck, and the chains broke on my legs.

The Count was already waiting for me in the crook of the secret passage, just off the arimaspi's path.

"You have it?"

He jumped up when he heard my question. “Oh. Yes, yes. Quite so.” he revealed my saddlebag and the Idol within. "Are you sure you want to go on with this, Miss Shimmer?" he asked, "Surely we could try to negotiate with the King or the heir, reach some sort of compromise--"

"No." I stretched my hoof to take the Idol. I had no time for doubt or pity, and wouldn't swerve for his silly arguments.

"At least don't do it here." The Count stepped back away from my grasp, his hoof covering it protectively. "Someone might stumble upon us. And stop us. Stop you."

He was stalling. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in the cowardly beat of his heart hidden in my saddlebag. A silly childish diversion; Still at war with the realities of life and his silly little conscience, afraid to follow the logic of the plan to the ultimate conclusion of the final act... But he wasn't wrong either.

"Let's go." I agreed. "The arena. It should be empty now, and it'll be easier there."

The magic I was about to perform cared little for the walls and the castles once it would be cast, yet even ‘little’ was not something I was willing to risk. Under the open skies, further from the pattern of the spell and the thick walls and ancient masonry of Gormenghast, there I would finish this ordeal.

"Mind if I join?" A deep, silken voice interrupted us before I had a chance to take a step, and a winged silhouette stepped out of the shadows, shining with green opals and cold blue sapphire at her throat.

"Bluette? What are you doing here?" The Count nearly jumped out of his coat with surprised. Were I not so tired, it would have been really funny.

"I told her about our plan," I explained. I did tell her that, and in that moment that seemed wrong somehow, though I could not quite put my hoof on why exactly. I trusted her, after all.

"Why?" the Count's horn shone with slim light. Was he going to attack Bluette? That idea did not sit well with me.

"Because I asked her." she smiled a tiger's smile. "You'd do anything I ask you to, wouldn't you, child?"

I nodded before I caught myself. Those emerald eyes seemed to eclipse the world, drowning me in the smell of summer peaches. I trusted Bluette, and she would not ask me anything wrong, after all.

She laughed, her throaty, velvety laughter, and my heart would have beaten faster if it were still in my chest as she ran her feathered wing along my chin in a gentle caress.

"When you first sent that child to me, I thought it was merely a gift. Such a taste: ocean salt and daffodils, burnt meat and lion's roar, nightshade and moondust -- and hunger, his hunger in her blood. But no, you didn't know, did you? How many powers have left their mark on that child?

“That was already enough to peak my interest, but I had no idea that you delivered me a perfect tool to find the gem -- an opportunity I simply could not miss."

I trusted her. I liked her. But there were limits to my trust, and if I learned anything from my previous love, it was how to hex somepony who outdrew me.

Awkwardly, I stepped back, reluctant to leave the touch of her wing, and my horn took aflame, as I prepared to cast a spell.

“Come on now, child, put away your spells,” she purred, turning to me, "you love me, don't you?"

Her eyes shone with subtle green light, and again something very odd happened to her voice when she spoke. It became thicker somehow, richer. It wasn’t the voice or the cadence, but there was a suffocating-sweet smell of summer peaches in my mind, and her words became infused with an insidious blend of sensuality and desire that felt like it slid into my ears lighting up my brain with the soft magical glow.

And in that moment I loved her.

I loved her perfect form -- the motionless inequine grace and midnight-black velour of her coat, the lush wave of her tail. I loved her eyes, burning with the green flame of magic, the way she could command the room with just her presence, the way she knew me instantly to the depth of my soul just by looking at me. The way she made me feel safe when I came to her for help and the secret things she whispered to me at night while I slept, filling my mind with knowledge and magic.

"So eager, my little pet," Bluette murmured, giving me her hoof to kiss. "That mind so sharp, so open for new things to learn. A mind open like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded.

"Her eagerness to learn, her instinctive trust to a teacher -- that was the chink in the armour of her soul, and all I needed to make her mine."

I loved her, with all my heart.

The touch of my lips to her hooves had filled me with warmth and contentment, and I almost moaned feeling my magic returned to me.

"Come on, Blue.." The Count was as suave as he's ever been, never missing a beat. "Perhaps we can come to some arrangement? We're all reasonable--"

"Yield the Idol milord. Or do you harbour any illusions that my pet won't rip out your throat should I command her?"

I loved her. I would kill for her without hesitation.

There was everything I ever wanted in her touch. Warmth. Understanding. Acceptance of me just as I was, for ever and ever. And most potent of all, intoxicating like the strongest drug in the world -- love, unconditional and undiscerning, making my head spin with the smell of summer peaches. With her, I could not pretend any more. With her, I could just be myself. No lies, no silence, no awkward pauses.

I loved her, and it made me want to die.

Even as I wanted it -- wanted it above anything else I've ever wanted in the world, I knew
that that love and acceptance that surrender promised was not for me. I could not just be me.

I could not fail my Princess again. I had to do better, I had to be better; and a feeling lurched in my soul, dark and terrible. A feeling for which I have not yet had a name, but I clutched to it, like a drowning mare to a straw. And through that feeling, a dark power came over me, a wave of black resolve, and I rose.

All four of my legs shot straight, and my horn stabbed her in the neck, just above the collarbone. And I kept pushing, with all my strength, with all my self-loathing and self-hatred, with all the darkness in the place where my heart used to be, ripping the skin and sinew, dragging up and along, until something snapped in her neck.

Her blood, hot and somehow wrong -- bitter and sour -- dripped down my muzzle instead of tears.

She fell limply on the floor, still trying to breathe with the ripped throat, her flesh rippling and shifting with the soft convulsions of agony, and still, she was beautiful beyond description.

And then it caught aflame, green fire bursting from underneath her skin, as my magic she held escaped from her body, burning it to ash in the process.

I watched her burn, and still I loved her. It may have been magic, a spell she put on me, but in those last dying moments, it was true love nonetheless. Were there still a heart in my chest, it would have died anew that day.

"Well," Fancy said, slightly paler than his usual white. "That's one way to deal with the issue."

I stretched, controlling my breath, the tip of my horn to the backs of my hooves, dumping all emotion in the ground, my magic flowing across my skin to wipe off the blood. “We should go.” I touched my left shoulder, where under the short coat a thin line of calligraphy reminded of another lesson, learned in another time. “Time grows thin.”

I thank my fate with all my heart 
For loving you not any longer, 
For nightmares that don't come at night, 
For lack of that familiar longing, 
For us not meeting under moonlight, 
For our not-standing under the sun's glow - 
That not with me - alas - you lose your mind, 
That not with you - at last- I lose my own.

Fancy, Count Hoffington
Dedicated to S.
Not yet written.