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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Aletheia
Ask a pony to tell you of the centre of Equestria, its heart, and they would speak to you of Canterlot, the Mountain City, and Seat of the Sun on High.
They would be wrong.
Far to the south of Canterlot, beyond the Everfree, and the Badlands, in the true centre of the Equestrian continent, lies a vast, sprawling forest. Those wayward souls that pass by it tell tales of an ancient city that lies within its depths, lost to the passage of nature and time.
Ponies speak of many such cities.
Only in the heart of winter when the nights are long, and high above in their cities of cloud the air turns breath to frost, do the pegasi speak Seren, the Midnight City.
Under the harsh light of day, the pegasi claim, Seren was all but invisible. But at night, bathed in the gentle glow of the moon and lit by the night sky in all its glory, Seren shone.
The ponies of Seren, they say, worshipped the gods of ice, and the long dark, and the gods of the endless sky, and so in their image was the city of Seren built; above the great plains, above mountains and clouds, great domes and towers spun out of the very air itself. They speak of great casements and archways of nothing that would look out upon the heavens and claim it as their own.
So too do they speak of the ponies of Seren who would shape themselves in the sky’s image; becoming gradually more and more indistinguishable from their city of the air.
Until one day, the wind changed.
Only during those twilight days between summer and fall, between beginnings and endings, do the unicorns speak of Arcadia, the City of Mirrors.
They tell tales of its thousand towers, perfect in form and design. So flawless were their surfaces, it is said, so peerless their craftsmanship, that each wall formed a mirror that reflected the true essence and beauty of all around it.
But there was another Arcadia, and it was seen in every silvered wall, every pool of still water. And where all the lines of the real Arcadia smooth and curved, the lines of the mirror Arcadia were straight and harsh, and cruel.
In the highest spires of Arcadia, it was said, lived gods of great beauty, and great power. In their name the ponies of Arcadia bent the sky to cover their city, such was their right, and rejoiced in the majesty of the heavens surrounding them. This, they proclaimed, was their great legacy.
Until there came a day that the ponies of Arcadia could no longer tell the city from its reflection, and found their highest spires lay abandoned.
It is with the greatest solemnity that the earth ponies speak of Cärdos, City of Memory.
They do not speak of a time before Cärdos began, for to do so would belie the truth of Cärdos’ existence; the oldest of things are of Cärdos, and time before them has little meaning.
In Cärdos, they claim, lived no gods but the wisest of ponies, who would accept only the most ancient of things into their city. Thus Cärdos came to dwarf all else in age, until the city itself began to fade into the recesses of history.
In time, they say, ponies will speak of Cärdos no more, and only in this final obscurity will the city be complete.
None speak of Aletheia.
They do not tell tales of the wonders of its buildings, which could appear out of the air on a thought, and on a thought, vanish.
They do not speak of the majesty of its great towers, in which all things past, present, and future, could be seen.
They do not speak of the great age and wisdom of its people, who were looked upon by lesser beings and called gods.
They do not tell of the tragedy of its fall, or the great sorrow of its passing.
Aletheia, the greatest city, is forgotten.
In the heart of the equestrian wilderness, there is a vast forest. The lost souls who wander past on occasion tell tales of towers within its depths glimpsed from a distance; none venture closer.
They know not of the city that waits there, in the long shadows of obscurity, until the time comes that its denizens will again walk its paths.
And how they too, in time, shall be remembered.
They would be wrong.
Far to the south of Canterlot, beyond the Everfree, and the Badlands, in the true centre of the Equestrian continent, lies a vast, sprawling forest. Those wayward souls that pass by it tell tales of an ancient city that lies within its depths, lost to the passage of nature and time.
Ponies speak of many such cities.
Only in the heart of winter when the nights are long, and high above in their cities of cloud the air turns breath to frost, do the pegasi speak Seren, the Midnight City.
Under the harsh light of day, the pegasi claim, Seren was all but invisible. But at night, bathed in the gentle glow of the moon and lit by the night sky in all its glory, Seren shone.
The ponies of Seren, they say, worshipped the gods of ice, and the long dark, and the gods of the endless sky, and so in their image was the city of Seren built; above the great plains, above mountains and clouds, great domes and towers spun out of the very air itself. They speak of great casements and archways of nothing that would look out upon the heavens and claim it as their own.
So too do they speak of the ponies of Seren who would shape themselves in the sky’s image; becoming gradually more and more indistinguishable from their city of the air.
Until one day, the wind changed.
Only during those twilight days between summer and fall, between beginnings and endings, do the unicorns speak of Arcadia, the City of Mirrors.
They tell tales of its thousand towers, perfect in form and design. So flawless were their surfaces, it is said, so peerless their craftsmanship, that each wall formed a mirror that reflected the true essence and beauty of all around it.
But there was another Arcadia, and it was seen in every silvered wall, every pool of still water. And where all the lines of the real Arcadia smooth and curved, the lines of the mirror Arcadia were straight and harsh, and cruel.
In the highest spires of Arcadia, it was said, lived gods of great beauty, and great power. In their name the ponies of Arcadia bent the sky to cover their city, such was their right, and rejoiced in the majesty of the heavens surrounding them. This, they proclaimed, was their great legacy.
Until there came a day that the ponies of Arcadia could no longer tell the city from its reflection, and found their highest spires lay abandoned.
It is with the greatest solemnity that the earth ponies speak of Cärdos, City of Memory.
They do not speak of a time before Cärdos began, for to do so would belie the truth of Cärdos’ existence; the oldest of things are of Cärdos, and time before them has little meaning.
In Cärdos, they claim, lived no gods but the wisest of ponies, who would accept only the most ancient of things into their city. Thus Cärdos came to dwarf all else in age, until the city itself began to fade into the recesses of history.
In time, they say, ponies will speak of Cärdos no more, and only in this final obscurity will the city be complete.
None speak of Aletheia.
They do not tell tales of the wonders of its buildings, which could appear out of the air on a thought, and on a thought, vanish.
They do not speak of the majesty of its great towers, in which all things past, present, and future, could be seen.
They do not speak of the great age and wisdom of its people, who were looked upon by lesser beings and called gods.
They do not tell of the tragedy of its fall, or the great sorrow of its passing.
Aletheia, the greatest city, is forgotten.
In the heart of the equestrian wilderness, there is a vast forest. The lost souls who wander past on occasion tell tales of towers within its depths glimpsed from a distance; none venture closer.
They know not of the city that waits there, in the long shadows of obscurity, until the time comes that its denizens will again walk its paths.
And how they too, in time, shall be remembered.