The teacup hung in the air before her in a yellow nimbus softly glittering. The green-tinted liquid within steamed gently, its aroma filling her world with an earthy smokiness stirring old memories long left alone.

An old hearth aglow with crackling flames: a warm comfort in an ancient castle held in the grip of winter. There was a mother's voice, scolding playfully through a half-disguised smile. Now she was running through long corridors hung with tapestries showing shapes long since blurred and lost in the years. A little sister's embrace, a father's love - the simplicity of a family.

Celestia took a small sip of the Lapsang tea; its flavour strong, echoing its scent. The taste brought with it memories of a midnight sky cast with diamond dust hanging over dozens of flickering fires warming indistinct figures huddled in their glow. It was a pale echo of the brilliant stars; a tragic likeness in that so many of those fires would never be lit again, their tenders dying in the day. The eve before a battle long since fought and forgotten… though just which and where was a mystery. All were alike in her memories; each night echoing excitement and fear and worry, each dawn heralding death and horror.

So it was with memory after a life so long lived. There was a point when they ceased being 'bad' or 'good' as the centuries passed; experiences drew together as one, filtering away quietly to the back of the mind to reside as one piece, not to be separated. Even as Celestia remembered her sister as the innocent filly who needed comforting against thundery weather, so too did she remember the pangs of guilt and sorrow while comforting the dying on fields of battle washed with rain and lit by lightning.

No tears were welling in her eyes now though. Celestia drained the rest of the Lapsang from the elegant teacup, then set it down upon its saucer with not a rattle. She considered the large pot next to it, crafted with the same exquisite simplicity as the cup. She made no move to pour just yet though, settling on the cushions of the reading bench and letting the strong flavour fade from her tongue, along with the recollections it had stirred, of burning cities and warming bread.

Slowly, the past faded from her mind's eye, drawing her to the present time and place: her chambers, set in the tallest tower of Canterlot. At its peak, a small library crafted with care from white marble and polished black ebony, simple beauty rather than showy opulence. Books lined those dark shelves all around the circle of wall; thousands, though only some few alike in shape and colour. Their spines were arrayed like standing soldiers in perfect order, presenting pale shields each marked with a golden sun at their centers. How incredible would it be for a student of history to find these! How excited they would grow to find a familiar script in each one, near unchanged from the first age-weathered tome to the last with its paper freshly cut.

An archive of journals penned by Princess Celestia herself, stretching back into the mists of time to before Equestria was even a word.

To a time before she had power over the sun.

A voice, soft and almost kind though with little warmth spoke, "Destrier, Lance-Captain of the Solar Guard. Perished this day in the 197th year of our reign." It was the voice of a mare, sweet enough to have been made for song, but with a queerly deadpan quality.

Celestia took up the pot of tea and refilled her cup, watching in silence as the pale liquid rippled and steamed. She did not so much as spill a drop, did not so much as bat an eyelash -- none could challenge her might in this place, but Celestia had no need to demonstrate such; it was a familiar voice and one she had heard many times before.

"A sacrifice of desperation, to win time for her regents," said Celestia, magic lifting her cup. "In our victory was she avenged, her bravery and honour knows no rival. I shall remember her."

"Word for word," replied the voice. There was the sound of a page turning; she had one of the journals open, it seems. Celestia could picture the page clear in her mind's eye. It was funny how that worked sometimes; the living memories had long since faded to grey mist, but the words she had written about them were still there in her head. The entry for Destrier was a short one; a mere few lines placed at the center of a blank page, likely now faded to yellow with its age. Facing opposite those words was a sketch that hurt to recall: a stylized lance at guard, its shaft a swirl of silver and black and at its point a fluttering flag...

"A red pennant bearing three amber diamonds. I wonder how many today know who your tribute was for," continued the reader.

"All too few," answered the princess, renewing the smoky flavours with a sip of the Lapsang. That and the name conjured a sharp image from the swirling mists of time; she had been tall and strong, her coat a steely grey marked with scars, her mane a shock of wild red and amber. Destrier held such presence; she was like a titan made flesh, striding the battlefield like a goddess of war only to be struck low like any other pony. She had been so good and loyal, so honest and courageous, and so tender when the darkness pressed closed and threatened to overwhelm.

"So very sentimental when it comes to your lovers," said the voice, though it was an observation rather than a jibe.

"They deserve to be remembered," murmured the princess in reply, her eyes turning now to the reading bench opposite her. Reclining on the red velvet with every air of ease was a pegasus... was Destrier. Every scar was there, every ripple of perfect muscle. Her wings were as tattered as they always were, and even the endearing little notch in her teeth was showing in that soft smile she had… But Destrier had never the patience for reading, while this apparition had no less than three journals set before her.

The familiarity of the image, so perfect in every detail, made the princess' heart ache in a way that she hadn't known in an age. It stirred up wants and desires she had long since thought turned to stone. Celestia did not move though, did not break her poise. She willed herself to speak, tone even but icy cold.

"No. Not that shape. Never her."

"So very sentimental," the voice said again, and the image changed. The shape of Destrier shifted and changed. Now it was Celestia looking into a mirror of herself, though instead of her snowy white coat, this was a smokey grey with a mane of shimmering silver fire. Eyes the colour of a summer sky were focused on the book, though they had a dead, milky quality to them that was unsettling. She had never been able to master eyes…

"And I had hoped it would have been such a welcoming sight," said the apparition with a sigh.

"You tread on dangerous ground with such, Lacuna," said Celestia coolly.

"I tread not at all," replied Lacuna, breezily, "Starved as you are for companionship, I thought mayhaps an old face would put you at ease." Those blue eyes raised to meet Celestia's, "You had been so cheered when last we met."

When last they met had been more than a full century past; a full lifetime for most other ponies, though that meant little enough to an alicorn... or to a mnemophage.

"Darling, I don't see what all of the fuss is about..."

"But don't you see, my princess? With this, we can change the face of the world."

"With fire and steam?"

The exchange was clear as crystal in Celestia's head. Her eyes shot open, every muscle tensing when she heard that voice, his voice...

"Yes of course!" he had cried, a cheerful grin brightening his fine features. Even well into the sunset of his life, Emerald Sage had kept his youthful enthusiasm and charm, and even the fine grey beard that marked his chin and gave him such noble countenance did little to hide his coltish glee. "Oh, not with just this, mark you," he added, waving a dismissive, oil-stained hoof at the little machine that was whirring, chuffing and, yes, belching gently on his work bench. As it puffed and hissed, a pair of small iron wheels at either end of the strange array of pipes and cylinders were turning a belt that had been slung between them.

Celestia peered at the machine, trying to discern just what such a thing could accomplish but found herself drawing a blank. It was magic that held sway over Equestria; there seemed nothing at all that it could not do, given a sufficiently skilled mind. But, even as skilled a unicorn as the Sage was, he always had a fascination and love for the mundane. His workshop at the edge of Canterlot was a mad riot of tools and metal and wood, of furnaces and forges and benches each with their own purpose, at least to a practiced eye.

The princess was about as far out of place here as one might expect; a coat of snowy white with a long mane and tail of gently flowing colour, all arrayed in the crest and crown of her office. It made for a stark contrast to the old stallion all in sturdy, dirty canvas, his pale blue coat marked and smeared with oil, grease, dirt and any number of other hazards of craft, though no amount of dirt could hide the gleam of joy in his intelligent, jade-coloured eyes. Nor would such inconsequential things stop him from touching a hoof to Celestia's gently shimmering flank to lift a wing slightly.

"You have these, my dear… you and all the pegasi. Travel for you is no quandary," said the Sage, smoothing his hoof gently down the length of the silky soft vane. His touch left a smear of soot, a blemish that would have horrified the world had they but been able to see it. Even his touching the princess might have caused an uproar once, but Celestia only smiled, welcoming the casual intimacy.

The Sage continued, "If you need to reach a place, you have but to open your wings and touch the sky. For the rest of us, it is a march or a cart, which itself is a march for those pulling it. This… this can do work: this can turn the wheels without a pony's efforts."

His smile was broad, a smile not of pride in work and accomplishment but of simple passion. That was who he was; a builder and a thinker, always striving to make life better for others. Selfless and kind and wise…

The real world came back in a rush. Celestia let out a sharp breath, could feel herself shaking, sweat beading her brow. The Sage's smile was still clear in her mind's eye, only just starting to grey and fade at the edges, drifting back into the swirling mists of time.

"That was uncalled for, Lacuna - stay out of my mind," warned Celestia, a glimmer of anger surfacing through the usual serene calm she presented. The emotions those memories had stirred were bittersweet and painful… but so very compelling.

"I cannot help it, princess; speech and thought are one and the same to me. I simply wished to put you at ease."

"I did not ask…"

"You desired it nonetheless."

Mnemophage… Celestia had questioned Lacuna over the centuries during her sporadic visits, but gleaned little. Mnemophage lived in the formless ether outside of reality, yet somehow still a part of it. They were shapeless, near-mindless things that lived on base instinct, drifting through the nothing and feeding on the energies invoked by the memories of living creatures. The more vivid and powerful the memory, the better.

Lacuna had been one of those near-mindless things, but had found Celestia just after the princess had gained her power over the sun. The energies he had fed on had changed her, given her a mind and will all her own, and gave her the ability to take shape in reality, if only as a reflection or image of someone else's memory. Since that time, she has always stayed close, likely to feed off the pains of a life long lived. But, unlike the dreaded Windigo of myth, what the mnemophage took had little effect on the creature they fed on, save for a feeling of weariness.

They were harmless, or so Lacuna had said. Celestia felt no need to doubt her, yet all the same it was difficult to trust one so alien. Even so… the mnemophage had one particular talent; they lived outside of time, and thus were no constrained by it. With her newfound will, and the focus of a willing subject… one could relive old memories long since faded in the mists of time.

"I am at your service," said the mnemophage. They truly did not understand the difference between spoken word and private thought.

"It has been a very long time since you last visited."

"I am often with you, princess; I simply do not reveal myself. I keep others away from you."

"Jealously guarding your larder?" said Celestia, frowning a bit. It was disquieting to think of oneself in such a fashion.

"Yes," admitted Lacuna, with no trace of shame, "But also to keep others from gaining strength. We are not all like Lacuna. Some are predators, driving ponies to their knees with old memories of loss and failure and hate that would have best been left alone."

Harmless, she had said… not always so, then.

Celestia mulled on this, turning her eyes down to the cup of tea she still held in the air with her magic. It had long since gone cold. Hot and fresh, the Lapsang tasted of living fire, full of energy and life. Cold, it was as dead ashes on the tongue. There was an analogy there… She set the cup down with a soft rattle on the saucer.

"Lacuna…"

"If you so desire it," answered the mnemophage, setting the journal down with an almost ceremonial air. She had tremendous respect for those books. The two rested on the reading benches, a mirror of one another; one all in white and rainbow, the other in smoke and silver.

It would ache again, Celestia knew. Dozens of times had they done this, each time out of the need to see those faces, hear those voices so long lost… and each time the heartache after felt strong enough to kill her. But so would one suffer to be with those they love, so would one suffer it again and again…

Celestia stared into Lacuna's milky blue eyes, felt the stirring of something outside, felt a weight slowly press to her shoulders. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was staring into the deep green eyes of Destrier...

To be continued...

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