#109
Winter. Day 124. Noon. The Eye.

We came out of hovel this morning, the wind howling louder than ever. We were both pretty scared from that alone. It could knock us off our hooves, after all. We packed on more layers of clothes Ginger had brought along. All of them thick and heavy. We found ourselves trudging through deep snow with little visibility, bound together by a length of rope. Ginger kept the lead and I slogged behind with my aching leg.

The chill began to strike at our bones and the wind sucked away any breath we had. We kept marching on toward the vague pillar of light. Which became dimmer the closer we got. Either a strange phenomenon or the storm getting thicker. Lightning struck all around us too, vaporizing the snow and creating pits of steam. The rolling thunder was the only thing other than the wind that could be heard.

When we finally broke through the thickest of the snowstorm, we were greeted by the blazing clear sun of winter. Nearly blinded us too but our robes shielded our eyes from the worst of it. The sun warmed us, chasing away the chill of our bones. We're in the eye of it now, resting to our heart's content and enjoyed a small meal.

Ginger brought her mother again, “It kind of hurts being back here again. My fair mother and I took shelter in a cabin out here quite a few years ago. She was ill on our journey to Vesta, the storm was unexpected, for us. She passed away there, my hoof in hers.”

“A cabin?” I was instantly reminded of my uncle. Was there somepony there?” My hopes rose.

Intrigued, she answered, “There was. His name was Yukon.”

My eyes widened and then saddened, remembering his death. “He was my uncle.”

“That's all and good but you're looking rather down about it.” She lifted my chin up. “What happened?”

“He died. Some illness took over him and five years ago, he came back to Clackerton and passed away.”

She hugged me tightly and in a gentle tone, “Aren't we in the same boat, then?”

I hugged her back, “Yea, we are. Would you happen to know where the cabin is?”

“In the eye somewhere, if the storm hasn't taken it.”

#110
Winter. Day 124. Evening. Yukon's Cabin.

It was another long while before we found Yukon's cabin. Amidst the snow. His cabin stuck out like a tombstone with the thriving life of a garden around it. The surrounding snow seemed to grasp for it, failing at every attempt. Short and crude fences crafted from wood same as the Eversinge that we'd burned for warmth. They'd been charred too but didn't give way when shoved.

He had flowers of all sorts, a dance of colors and exotic shapes I'd never seen before, in plants. Ginger kindly filled me in on a few of them. Snameus, a soft flower with star-shaped petals red fading into yellow; skipping orange entirely. Its stalk was a long tube and leaves were few. Blue Flybards looked like a small batch of dragonflies gathered around a tiny yellow sun. They waved wildly about and climbed the iron trellises Yukon had placed. Pink Anitas kept to the ground, the head small in size but the diamond like leaves stretching far and wide. I guess he had something to occupy his time though Ginger pointed out that those flowers were extremely difficult to cultivate properly.

Yukon's cabin on the other hoof, was humble and constructed entirely out of Eversinge. Windows were aged by dust and dirt. The door left open, as if it were a forgotten invitation. When we approached the door there was no smell of rotting food. In its stead was the wafting aroma of Eversinge, a sweet and soft smell. I'd stay here if I could, but I've a promise to keep.

The inside was a bit cramped but there was room for everything he needed. An icebox, a table shoved in a corner without a chair but with a window, and a fire pit on the other side. His bed was divided from the rest of the cabin by a large teal curtain, hung by rings on a rod. There was another room, tucked away in the back corner. Windows on every outer wall, a single chair, an entire bookshelf filled with books, and a single painted canvas on an easel.

The painting was an abstraction of something. Quick thrusting lines of black made a circle. Red made a contorted square. Yellow and orange crafted a wave to split the entire painting. Dark and light hues of violet and blue streaked respective sides and for a moment I thought I began to recognize a familiar shape. At the bottom were four unique lines boxed in the lightest green I'd ever seen.

I brought myself to the chair to stare as Ginger came into the room behind me. Continuing a description of my uncle. “Yukon was quite hospitable to us. Kind and gentle, but he was extremely qui-.” She stopped, shooting a glance at me in a thoughtful state, then at the painting. “Letter?”

“Was this painting here when you were?” I asked lowly.

“No. If I remember rightly, he didn't let me here.” She answered. “Something about the painting bothering you?”

“Yea, I'm not sure what though. It's reminiscent of a puzzle I solved before.” I closed my eyes trying to remember it, “Maybe I'm over thinking it.” Reopened them and stared at it again, bringing my hooves to my cheeks. “What do you think?”

“A puzzle, the four marks at the bottom being a code. If I were to guess.”

I got up and dragged the small chair to the other side of the room to face the shelves. Then turned the painting around to face me and sunk back into the chair. “A code... what kind of code would he...” I trailed off, bringing my hooves to my cheeks again. The room wasn't that large but from this side it felt like it was even with its low ceiling. I felt my head began to ache the more I stared at the damned thing. I pulled myself away, realizing I was slowly leaning towards it.

I glanced out the window, seeing that the sun was beginning to set. Bleached the tops of the clouds in a warm orange.

#111
Winter. Day 125. Noon. Yukon's Cabin.

Ginger and I went to bed last night with little to say. I think the weather got the better of us last night. This morning, I woke up before her and headed straight into the study without a bite to eat. I stared at the painting some more hoping that a renewed mindset would think differently about it. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. The longer I looked the more frustrated I became.

Then I tried a different approach. I brought my muzzle close to the painting and looked over the strokes. Glanced over the symbols and if they could be deciphered in any way. While they looked familiar, I was at a loss for what.

“Letter?” Ginger called out from the empty door frame. I nearly jumped out of my skin then. “I scared you, funny. Anyways, have you ate yet?”

“No,” I answered, catching my breath. “This painting has been on my mind all night.”

“It might mean nothing.”

“A possibility but a painting always has something to say.” I rambled.

“I've prepared breakfast. Come off that and eat, will you?” I noticed a change in her accent with the last of her words. More pronounced and proper. “You can get back to this some other time.”

“No, I can't. I made a promise.”

“Pardon?”

“A promise to Yukon, that I'd burn his cabin down for him.”

“Burn it down...” Confusion splayed. “I don't understand.”

“He was a believer in that when you pass, all your earthly possessions would be burned. He had nopony to go to for that, other than my family.”

“There was me.”

“There's a reason he didn't tell you then, I'm sure. I've a strong feeling this painting is part of it.” I pried my eyes from and walked toward her. “Let's eat. We'll talk over it more later.”

So we ate. A small meal, a little less than what we had the night before but enough. It was a quiet meal until Ginger began to talk about her mother. A somber note to start a morning, better than frustration I guess. She described her much like my own mother, but she was more hard headed. Willing to speak her mind when she felt it was necessary. A good role model, really. I asked her why she and mother went to Vesta. She didn't want to talk about it, frowning and giving me a simple answer. “Her and Pa didn't see eye to eye enough.” Then I asked about how she knew Equestrian, “Your uncle Yukon taught me. Honestly it's a tad rusty. Had some practice with Bolt while you were out.”

“How did you all find out what language I spoke anyways?”

“You kept whispering something about a pony named Apricot. Then something about forgiving your mother. Like you were replaying something in your head.”

“Maybe I was. I don't remember.”

“Well, I can't imagine why. You wailed bloody murder a few times even. Fisher and Hisser had a heck of a time restraining you. Lucky for them that you're practically harmless.”

“That's good I guess.” I agreed with a small smile. “Your mother, you said she died here right?”

“She did. I'll show you after we're done where she's buried.”

So we came upon her gravestone, place alongside a few others. There were a few flowers that sprung up around it. I looked at the other tombstones, they were named but in a scrawl I couldn't recognize. Nothing similar to Gestal. I asked her about the other graves, they were there before she arrived. She hugged her mother's tombstone and momentarily, I thought I saw wisps spring up from it. It certainly wasn't dirt. I paid what respects I could, thanking her for a wonderful daughter. Ginger blushed at that.

I went back into the study and stared at the painting some more. It was tiring not to get frustrated at the stupid thing. I don't understand why it was making me angry. Ginger worked with me, calming me down and offering suggestions. What if its nothing? What about the books on the shelves? Maybe it's supposed to to make me angry. I had a good feeling about the books on the shelves so I stared at them awhile. I noticed a few of their bindings had parts of the symbols. So I rearranged them on the shelves and took off any that didn't. Figured out their order and rearranged them again.

When it all came together, I finally recognized the familiarity with it. The symbols were the same as the locks for the lockbox I left behind. Nothing happened when I finally got them right. It was disappointing. I opted to take a break, leave my mind to rest a bit.

#112
Winter. Day 125. Late Evening. Yukon's Cabin.

I found myself standing outside, before the three gravestones. It was chilly, the sky was clear as it could be. None of them stars made constellations I could recognize. The horizon still cloaked in shadow and lightning. Only the rolling thunder broke the silence. The moon was bright enough to see without a fire. Still, I had an oil lamp for more proper light.

I was curious about them, the gravestones and their writing. I was getting the feeling that this was another puzzle. Another gear to the clock. If reorganizing the books didn't do anything, maybe the stones will. Looking them over front and back, I saw the four symbols again; placed in a different order than what I had. I started to understand. Each set of books needed to be placed in a different spot and in a proper order. These gravestones had the full order. So I wrote them down, spacing out each set of four, crossing out ones that weren't related. Then rewrote it. The final result was eighteen sets. Whatever in the world would uncle Yukon need this long of a code for?

I wandered back into the study. Keeping quiet as a mouse so Ginger wouldn't wake up. I let her have the bed. I'd rather her be in good health. I took some of the extra rope, split it and tied each strand around a different set of books. If I was to be moving these books, tying them together would eliminate extra work. I tore through my notes and began to enter the combination, set by set. One grueling hour passed as I brought one set of books to another shelf. Placing them like a mad librarian. Once the combination was finished, the cabin began to shake, the floor beneath me began to warm. Then fire shot through the cracks. I needed to run.

#113
Winter. Day 126. Early Morning. Yukon's Cabin.

I pulled Ginger from the bed and grabbed our bags. Threw ourselves out of the doorway and into the shivering cold. The snow bit at my hooves. Ginger still didn't wake up from that, so I shook her lightly until she did. She smacked her lips together after a yawn and slowly opened her eyes. The fire had nearly engulfed the back half of the cabin.

Ginger spoke up, dazed, “Looks like you kept your promise.” She patted her robe down, then her eyes went wide, “I left something in there! My necklace, it was on the bed. Could you fetch it for me?”

“Fetch? I'm not a dog, Ginger.”

“Sorry, but please get it, it is extremely important.”

So I stripped off my robe and went back into the cabin. I found the bed among the smoke, avoiding the curtains that had started to catch. I rummaged through the blankets and checked under the pillow. For a moment I wondered why she wouldn't keep it with her, in her robe or bags. Then I found it lodged in the corner. Fire began to make its way behind me. I snatched it and blindly ran back toward the door. Only to find that it blocked by a fallen crossbeam. The windows were too tough to break and the fire hadn't yet burned through the roof. So I ran through to the study, dodging every lick of flame I could.

I saw loose bits of the wood collapsed by the windows and the chair refused to catch. I tested my strength with it a moment, no heavier than a young colt. I positioned myself, grabbed two sides, heaved and chucked it through the wall. The sudden change forced fire to come up from behind me and a gust knocked me down. Luckily, I remained unharmed. I darted out the hole I'd made before it collapsed further.

Coughing and breathless, I made my way back around the cabin. Where Ginger was impatiently waiting. I gave her the necklace, which she immediately tucked away into her robe. She hugged me, “You've no idea how much this means to me.”

“A gift from your mother, I presume?” I coughed. When she pulled away I noticed soot puff off my coat. She had some on her own too.

“You could say that. More a heirloom, really.” Her accent quickly shifted again.

“You're welcome, just remember I'm no fire fighter.” I said pulling my robe back around my shoulders. “Let's wait till the fire dies down. We can gather some more firewood.” A partial lie. My gut was telling me there was something more than just burning down the cabin.

“Well, I'll prepare some breakfast then.” Again with the proper accent.

#114
Winter. Day 126. Noon. Yukon's Cabin.

It was a lovely fire. Plumes of smoke tumbled into the sky. The fire tossed idly about, making its sparks perform like dancers in a festival. Even though we kept our distance, the heat radiated like the sun on a summer's day. Crackling snaps matched the heavy thunder. The fire died out thanks to the freezing wind.

I approached the rubble, kicking my hooves through what ash there was. Suddenly I heard a heavy groan beneath me and the ground began to cave. The earth below opened up and swallowed the cabin whole. I backed away to escape gaping hole and looked to the graves, they were still intact. I was happy about that.

After the quake ceased, I found myself approaching the hole again. It was deeper than any well I’d ever known. Yet at the bottom, a faint shimmer of light. And the walls appeared to be steel darker than any blade, holding no light. From here I could feel its coldness. No stairs to lead the way.

“By the name of the land.” she gasped, peering down the hole with me. “What is this?”

“I don't know. I've an idea, but it's not a good guess.” I glanced at her, “You want to find out together?”

“But I can't fly and your wings are in no shape for it.”

“My wings are fine. Just a small clip now. Leave our stuff up here so the extra weight won't bother us.”

So we did. She clung to my back and wrapped her hooves around my neck. And we dove into to the darkness below. Unsure of what was waiting there.

#115
Winter. Day 127. Evening. Design: Bury.

A long flight into the darkness below and into another light. At the bottom were the remains of the cabin. But that's not what caught our attention. What did was an endless wave of dirt and sand piled atop one another, fighting for supremacy.

I took a step off the platform, my hoof touched the surface of glass clearer than a full moon's night. Everything was clearly seen now. Another step and it reacted to me, felt my presence. I heard Ginger call for me, but her words died. Another step and I could feel the glass bend. And on my last, the glass shattered and the illusion disappeared.

Before us stood a small array of things we'd never seen. Monsters of painted steel left to rust in the darkness. Arms shaped and crafted to dig away at the land, move it elsewhere. To reform it. Shape it as they saw fit. They did not move by magic nor the strength of many. Their size could easily dwarf a house.

What was also here were the remnants of something else. Something that sprung to life when I touched it. A desk, a wide podium with a sphere in its center, that flared up a large luminescent window of blue-green light. On it and in the Designer's Script: Bury. “Bury.” I repeated.

A cold voice called out in unchanging tone in a language I couldn't recognize. It repeated itself until appeared to realize the issue. From a ball in the long desk sprouted a grid that fell us like water. Ginger remarked how weird it was but the ghost cut her off, “Language corrected. Initiating Proper Protocol.” Even creepier, “First Princess Ginger Snow and Great Descendent Letter Bee.” We both shot wide glances at one another. The cold voice continued, “I welcome you to Bury, Design seven of seven. I am Shovel, Keeper of Bury.” The large screen changed from the script to lines that reacted to its voice, sound waves.

The word 'accessing' popped up in one corner and Shovel continued. “Records of Eidolon show Yukon has passed. Records of Acacia show Letter's mother has become one again.” Ginger shot me a confused glance. “Letter is aware, I presume.”

“That is correct.” Our voices echoed here thanks to the steel. “She told me to seek out one of you. What was the purpose of splitting my mother?”

“To prevent failure.”

“Failure?” I questioned.

“Corruption. Acacia calls it Rebirth.”

“What is Rebirth?”

“That is unclear.”

“Really now? Where can I find the answer?”

“Acacia.”

“Where is Acacia?”

“Locations of other Design cannot be revealed by a Keeper or another Design.”

I thought further questioning would be fruitless. “What is the purpose of Bury?”

“To conceal the Designs.”

“That obviously failed.”

“Correct. Curiosity is not prominent to one species, but many.” Then something strange happened to it, as if it were being attacked. The line stumbled and scrambled, creating a twisted voice of confusion. “Permission granted. Override initiated.”

The line fell flat before several garbs of static mangled it. Then a calm warm voice came through. “Evening, Letter, Ginger. “ Those few words alone nailed him old and tired. “It's a good thing you've come, Letter. The lockbox I gave her was two things: a gift which she treasures and the second is a spell of concealment. The third function was something she did on her own.” The voice sighed, “I will look into this Rebirth of hers.”

“Sir, Why was my mom torn in two anyways?” I asked.

He laughed warmly and low, “Sir... I haven't been called that it such a long time. He magic was tearing her apart, she'd yet to realize it at the time. She became sicker and sicker as I studied. I found that magic couldn't be taken from its owner, its host. So I created a leech and split her magic into many, disguising it in various ways. It was not until the maelstroms began had I realized that it had all began coming back together. Then it was only a matter of time.”

“How can we stop my mother?”

“Right now, you can't. Only when you can get here, can you do that. And here is very far away from there. The scrollwork in the fourth volume will help lead the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Pardon the interruption of this history lesson, but I'd like to know if there's an easier way through this storm.” Ginger spoke up, impatience riding her tongue.

“A moment.” He rang out a deep breath. “It is done. Letter, I will contact you when I find out.”

“Thank you.” Ginger and I chimed in unison.

Vaguely, I thought imagine the voice on the other end smile. Then the communication cut in a garbled static and the glow of the orb faded away.