S A P R
When the gods of light and darkness departed from the world, leaving mankind to unworthily inherit the fruits of their labours, they did so in the name of choice. They had agreed that man, whom they agreed in what I can only describe as a kind of mutual insanity to be the pinnacle of their creation, should be free to choose. To forge his own path in the world unfettered by gods or fate, free to make of himself what he would…if he could survive the creatures of grimm, that is.
But, the perils posed by demons out of legend aside, mankind is free to choose. Of the four relics which the gods left behind them one of them even embodies the power of choice. How ironic, then, that you seem so eager to reject the power of choice that is your birthright. You cling to the so-called wisdom of ancient wizards, you look to virtuous maidens to lead and inspire you, you raise up kings and generals and enter into voluntary servitude beneath their banners. Do you do this because you are afraid? Do you wish to avoid taking the blame for the consequences of your own poor decisions? Do you simply want the heavy burden to pass from your shoulders and onto another? Are you, perhaps, so blinded by power that you feel you have no…no choice but to abase yourself before it.
In truth, what I find even stranger is that you do not only give away your choices but seek to deny that you ever had choices to begin with. Consider destiny, this grand notion that you have created: a being of great power overseeing the world, spinning out the threads of fate, determining the inexorable futures of kings and empires. Well, I do my best, but I'm afraid you give me too much credit. Although I make my plans and send my agents, I am not responsible for the majority of the failures that you experience; frankly, you cause your own travails well enough on your own through your folly, your hubris, and, yes, your belief that all was pre-ordained. There are no lessons to be learned from your mistakes for they were inevitable from the moment of creation. How much more you could be if you were willing to take off the blindfold and see the truth but no, you cling to the lie that is destiny like an old friend or a child's comfort blanket. Some people run and run, chasing a destiny that is always just out of reach, turning their backs on everything they have and all who love them in pursuit of…what? A restless emptiness, a feeling they can't explain, a refusal to admit that, in the end, life cannot measure up to their expectations.
This is not my choice, Sunset.
You rule here, everything that happens here is by your choice.
Sunset Shimmer stood just outside of Canterlot Combat School, looking at a mirror set into the base of the Wondercolt Statue.
No one knew that it was a mirror but her. Everyone else just looked at it and – when they bothered to look at the base at all, and not the noble stallion on top of it – they saw only a marble plinth, perhaps with some particularly reflective surfaces.
Sunset saw a way home. A way that, although dormant, might one day open up and carry her back to Equestria.
Back to a home that she had left behind.
A home that had nothing to offer her any more.
It was your choice to make me love you, but it was my choice to believe that you loved me in return.
A home which called to her nonetheless.
The night was cold, as most nights in Atlas were, and Sunset shivered at the chill carried by the breeze as it bit through her leather jacket. She flinched as it nipped at her face. She could go back. Not right now, but when the portal opened she could go back. She could wait, and watch, and when the time was right she could step right through and she would be in Equestria again.
Equestria where she wouldn't have to watch where she sat down in a restaurant in case she'd strayed into the humans only section; Equestria where she wouldn't 'confess to being in the White Fang' just by loitering in a public library; Equestria where it wasn't an insult to be called pony but a name that she could wear with, if not pride, then equanimity.
Equestria where she would be equal…and, in being equal, then be nothing.
Sunset scowled. As if she was more than nothing in this place. It was no great life being a faunus in Atlas. In fact it was a pretty terrible life all things considered. She'd been arrested twice; she had more detentions and demerits than any other student in the school; kids who ought to have been old enough to know better pulled her tail on the street, and the one time she'd yelled at the for it a pair of fearless white knights had beaten her up (this was before she'd unlocked her aura). Sunset had come through the mirror chasing dreams of glory, but what she'd found was a world where she had to walk small and keep her head down if she wanted to stay alive.
I have a great destiny, and if you deny me I'll just take it for myself!
Sunset cringed at the memory of her youthful arrogance. She hated it here. She hated this place, she hated these people, she hated that she had come through the mirror looking like this. She hated her stupid tail and her stupid pony ears, why couldn't she have come through the mirror looking human? If she had, then she had no doubt that with her self-evident qualities of intellect and leadership she'd have been on top by now.
She hated the other faunus who just seemed to accept this as their lot in life.
Sunset reached out, and brushed her fingertips against the cold, smooth base of the statue. She could go home, if she wanted to. She could wait for the mirror to open up again and go back to Equestria where no one was discriminated against for what they were born as.
She could go back, and crawl to the base of Celestia's throne and confess that she had failed – in her destiny, and at everything else – and could she please have a room and a place at school to finish her education? No. No, she would not do that. Even the thought of doing that made her shudder. She would not humiliate herself in that fashion. Her pride would not allow it. Her back would not bend so far, nor her knees descend so low as to permit it.
The humans of this world might mock her, insult her, arrest here, assault her, threaten her, degrade her on a daily basis but in so doing they only revealed their own smallness of character. They could do all those things and worse, but they could not take away her knowledge of her own worth, they could not strip her of her self-respect nor her awareness of what she was truly due. She had a destiny, a great and tremendous destiny; that knowledge had sustained her through her years at Canterlot and it sustained her now against the temptation to admit defeat and leave it all behind.
She had a destiny, and though it was not to be found in Atlas it still existed in this world. She just had to hold her nerve and remember that she was Sunset Shimmer, born and raised and groomed for greatness. Vale would be different. Beacon would be different. There, she would find what she was looking for.
"I will not go back," she whispered to the mirror, and to the Wondercolt statue and the shattered moon above. "I won't fail. My destiny is here. And I'm going to grab it with both hands."
Then you'll see how wrong you were.
I wish that that was not the answer that you gave me, and yet as you are Sunset Shimmer I suppose it was the only answer you could give.
Sunset picked up Sol Invictus from where she'd rested it against the statue base, and slung it over her shoulder. Across the other shoulder she slung her backpack.
With one last lingering look, at the door to home that she would be leaving behind a continent away from where she was going, Sunset turned away and began to walk towards the docks.
Destiny is a crutch, you see. A crutch that, since it cannot be seen, allows you to pretend if only for a moment that your feeble legs can sustain your weight. Even when it ought to be obvious that that is not so, you refuse to face the reality of your situation. You refuse to choose more wisely, or to take any kind of responsibility for your predicament. Instead, you put your faith in destiny and dreams. Arrogance. There is nothing extraordinary about your life and existence. There is no special providence guiding you on an elevated path towards power or wealth or glory. You are not marked out to be set higher than the others. To be a man is to be nothing more than a grain of sand amongst multitudes, and you are no different.
Jaune Arc crept through his house with only a torch to light his way, passing through the rooms and corridors like a burglar in his own home.
It might not stay his home for much longer, not once Dad found the note and realised that Crocea Mors was missing from its place on the mantelpiece.
He told himself that it wasn't really stealing. It was a family blade, it didn't belong to any specific member of the family but to all of them, and he was as much a member of the family as anyone else so he had a right to take the sword.
Yeah, that didn't sound terribly convincing, even to him. But he needed a weapon and it wasn't as though anyone else was using it, right? The sword had just been gathering dust since his great-grandfather's time.
Jaune crept into the living room, where Crocea Mors waited right where it always was: on the mantle above the fireplace, sheathed and sitting upon an ornate cast iron stand.
His hand trembled just a little at the idea of – he could lie to everyone else, but it was harder to lie to himself – stealing it, but he didn't have a choice. He couldn't train to be a Huntsman at Beacon without some kind of weapon, and he didn't have the money to buy one or the skill to make one so Crocea Mors it was. Sure, it was kind of old and a little out of date but a sword was a sword, right? It wasn't as if it wouldn't work any more.
He had to do this. He'd come too far to turn back now. He'd forged the transcripts and the exam results, he'd hidden his acceptance letter from Professor Ozpin, he'd kept his plans a secret from seven nosy sisters. He wouldn't get another shot at this. If he didn't go now he'd never go.
And he needed to go. If he didn't get out of here then he was going to…this was his only dream, since he'd been six years old and had torn through every issue of My Huntsman Academia that he could get his hands on. To be the hero just like in the stories, to be the knight who saved everyone, that was what he'd always wanted to be. It didn't matter that his mom didn't want her baby boy to risk his life in some field somewhere; it didn't matter that his sisters told him he was too soft to make it through a huntsman academy, let alone as a pro huntsman; it didn't matter that his dad thought that the very idea of huntsmen was ridiculous, he knew what he wanted. This was his life, not his mom's or his dad's or any of his sisters and this was what he'd always wanted to be. He could do this, no matter what they thought.
After all, the guys in the comics made it look easy.
Gently, quietly, Jaune lifted Crocea Mors off the mantelpiece and strapped it to his belt. He might be stealing it but at least he was going to put it to good use.
He could do this. He would do this. This was his dream, this was what he'd always wanted to be.
This was his destiny.
He was descended from a hero. Sure, his dad was an accountant and his mom was a housewife and grandpa had collected taxes for the Vale Council but these things – heroic qualities inherited from your ancestors – often skipped a generation or two at a time, everybody knew that.
As he stole out of the house, Jaune vowed to himself that he was going to make his dreams come true and become one of the most famous huntsmen to ever live.
He had left a note explaining everything to his folks. He wasn't sure what would be worse: that they came to drag him back home…or that they didn't, because they just didn't care enough to bother.
Some of you run from your destiny, telling yourself how much you hate it, how much you want to escape from it and its baleful influence upon your life, not realising that your very belief in destiny holds you captive. For you see, you cannot escape something that doesn't exist, and so long as you can blame a conveniently external force for all your troubles and misfortunes you will never have to confront the fact that you have nothing to blame but your own weakness.
"Young mistress, everything has been packed for your journey."
"Thank you." Pyrrha murmured, although she could have done her own packing. In many ways she would rather have done so.
It would have meant that the final decision on what to take with her to Beacon rested with her and not her mother.
Still, that was not the maid's fault, and so Pyrrha smiled at her and hoped that it reached her eyes as the other girl left. Her name, Pyrrha thought, was Iris, but she wasn't sure. The staff here never seemed to stand still long enough for her to learn their names. She was aware that they had a job to do, and that that job wasn't to befriend her, but it would have been nice if one or two of them could have seen her as something other than the 'young mistress'.
She slid the door to her bedroom closed behind her, and sighed softly as she leaned across the wall. She was the young mistress to the servants; she was the Invincible Girl to the crowds who flocked to see her tournament fights; to her mother she was a sword, an instrument for the fulfilling of dreams from a generation ago. In a very real sense Pyrrha Nikos did not exist, not as a person. Nobody knew her. Nobody cared to know. They wanted their Invincible Girl; what the girl wanted was of no importance by comparison.
Pyrrha crossed the room, ignoring the suitcase neatly packed on top of her bed for a moment as she walked lightly and gracefully across the wooden floor to the trophy cabinet on the far wall. The major trophies, her regional tournament cups and the like, were not here: they were on display in the great hall where her mother could show them off to visitors and talk about what a prodigious talent her daughter was. But the lesser trophies, the ones from when she was younger, or simply from the less prestigious events, were up here. Her mother wanted them present to remind her of how far she'd come, and to not falter in her determination.
Too late for that, mother.
Pyrrha's eyes passed over most of the trophies, lingering on a very small statuette near the bottom corner of the cabinet. It was a brass statuette of a ballerina, feet crossed, hands in the air; she had won it when she was five years old, and come third in a junior ballet competition. The next year her mother had told her that she was no longer doing ballet any more; Pyrrha wasn't talented enough to make it worthwhile, better to devote all her efforts to combat training where she showed more aptitude. Third place, for a Nikos, was most definitely not good enough.
She had cried when that decision had been made, because she have loved ballet. She remembered loving it more than she had ever loved the fight.
She could, she thought, have been perfectly happy as a third rate dancer; and maybe, just maybe, Pyrrha Nikos wouldn't have gotten lost amidst everything else if she had taken that path instead.
Of course, it was not to be. Fate had decreed it otherwise. Her destiny lay elsewhere.
And in any event, she couldn't have saved anyone merely by being a passably good dancer.
Pyrrha closed her eyes and bowed her head in prayer that she might achieve the destiny that she had vowed for herself when two things had become inescapably clear to her: first, that she might be one of the greatest warriors of her generation, perhaps more; second, that she would never be allowed to be anything but a warrior.
That being the case, she would be the greatest warrior, and she would protect the world from all the terrors of the dark. That was the destiny to which she had dedicated herself with…she could not quite say that she had dedicated herself to it with all her heart, but at least with most of it.
That last, uncommitted part of her heart still hoped for more.
Pyrrha heard the door slide open behind her.
"Are you ready?"
"Almost," Pyrrha said. "Thank you for having my things packed for me, mother, it was very helpful."
"I still question the need for this. Professor Lionheart is a fine headmaster, and Mistral Academy is as old and prestigious as Beacon. Frankly, I question what you will gain from this move across the world."
I'm hoping that my reputation won't follow me halfway across the world. "With respect, mother, the fact that you don't understand my reasons does not invalidate them."
"Look at me, child."
Pyrrha turned around to face her mother, who stood in the doorway as if it was her intent to block the way in or out.
"You think that I don't see through you?" Mother demanded. "All that I have done I have done for your own good."
"I'm not ungrateful."
"You don't show much gratitude," Mother said. "I will be monitoring your grades; if you don't keep up the performance of which I know that you're capable I will bring you straight back here."
"Straight As, I suppose."
"Do you expect me to settle for anything less?"
They're not your grades. "No, mother."
Her mother shook her head disdainfully. "What do you hope to achieve by this? What do you think is waiting for you there?"
"I just want…" Pyrrha hesitated for a moment. "I want four years with friends, four years of fun and laughter and being a normal person-"
"You are not normal," Mother snapped. "You are the Invincible Girl, a prodigy! Friendship, fun, laughter? Pah! These things are meant for mere mortals, not for you. The brightest stars burn all alone, for their light eclipses all around them; and I will not have you dim your light for the sake of others, for the sake of friends. To burn brightly, for however brief a moment, that is where glory lies."
"For it is in passing that we achieve immortality," Pyrrha murmured.
"Indeed," Mother said. "Pyrrha Nikos may be forgotten, but the Invincible Girl will live forever in the hearts of men."
But I don't want to be the Invincible Girl. I want to be Pyrrha.
But that was a battle the Invincible Girl had lost a long time ago.
And then there are the simpler ones, the smaller and more honest souls, those whom you trust to light the way for all the rest to follow. True, they are less burdened by self-hatred than some, less plagued by doubt, less gnawed upon by the emptiness within themselves that no amount of accomplishment can assuaged. But in the end they are no less lost, no less alone, no less touched by melancholy. And, as you have spun so many lies before their eyes that they are quite blinded by them, they are no less incapable of seeing the truth about the world around them, or of making any choice to affect that world…for good.
The rose is no less touched by frost than any other flower in this garden of yours.
Ruby stood before her mother's gravestone.
It was not where Summer Rose was buried; nobody knew where that was or if there was even…Ruby didn't finish that unpleasant thought. She focussed on the marker, the white stone with the rose engraved upon it.
Summer Rose
Thus Kindly I Scatter
"Hey, Mom," Ruby whispered to the wintry air. It was snowing all around her, and she had the hood of her red cloak pulled up to keep it off her face and out of her hair. If anyone had been watching they wouldn't have been able to see her face at all.
Ruby hesitated for a moment, clutching her combat skirt with her hands. "I…I just wanted to tell you that I won't be around much any more. Well, not for a while I mean. You see…I kinda went to Vale to look for Yang, and on the way I stopped in this dust shop, and then I got distracted reading this gun magazine, and this guy named Roman Torchwick tried to rob the place and I was hwah! Hiyah! Kah! And then Torchwick was all 'End of the line, Red' and then Glinda Goodwitch showed up to save my life and then Professor Ozpin offered to let me into Beacon two years early!" Ruby balled her hands up into fists beneath her chin. "Yang and I are going to be first years together that's so cool! It's so awesome and I can't wait…but it means I'm not going to be around so much for a while. I'll still come home on break and I'll visit you I promise, I just…"
Ruby trailed off. Her memories of Summer Rose were few and vague. Mom had died when she was just a toddler. Yang remembered more, and had told her that Mom had been a supermom 'baking cookies and killing monsters', even though Yang wouldn't call her mom any more. But for herself, leaving aside Yang's stories, Ruby couldn't remember much more than fragments and echoes: a gentle voice, a pair of arms holding her, a flash of silver.
"I don't know if you'd be proud of me or not," she said, as her hands fell down to her sides. "I don't know if you'd want this for me, or for Yang. But it's what I want, Mom. I want to help people, I want to keep them safe, I want to make the world better for everyone!
"And I want to find out what happened to you. What really happened, the things that Yang won't tell me, the things that even Uncle Qrow won't tell me. I don't know what I'll find, or even what I'm looking for, but I know that it started at Beacon. So it starts there for me too."
Ruby smiled down at the only memorial to her mother. "But don't worry, I'll be careful, I promise. And Yang will be there too, so we can look out for one another. Next time I'm here I'll be on my way to becoming a fully fledged huntress, saving people with a fearless smile!
"I love you, Mom."
Ruby turned away and began to walk home. Rose petals trailed behind her, mingling with the falling snow.
So these are your guardians: lost and lonely creatures broken by their own poor choices which, too proud to admit to their mistakes, they ascribe instead to the malevolence of destiny. Neither of us are strangers to such as they, we both of us have made use of the lost and the lonely in the past. Pathetic as they are they make excellent pawns; and, if their eyes can be opened up to the truth about the world in which they live, then it is always possible that they can become so much more.
Which is where we differ, you and I. You use such poor creatures as they as your instruments, and yet because you seek to keep them in the confinement in which they languish those that do not perish in your war inevitably betray and abandon you. Either they seek to quit the struggle altogether and eke out their days in a state of miserable existence, or else they come to me, and in my warm embrace they find the home and purpose that you could never give.
You may call me wicked. You may even call me evil. You may say that I'm a monster, but at least I am an honest monster. Is it any less monstrous to manipulate all those around you, to twist their minds and fill them with lies, to use and abuse and cast them aside when they are of no more use to you? At least I offer even my worst enemies an honest choice: join me, or die.
We have both known the likes of these before, but the difference between us is that I can offer them respite from all their struggles. Love, home, power, respect, companionship, answers, I can offer all these things, and what can you offer them but the illusion of a free will that you have never respected, and lies about destiny that will only bring them tears.
So you may train your guardians, you may move your pawns upon the board, you may even seek to make a Maiden to raise up against me; you may put your hopes in a lost girl far from home, in a boy with a head full of dreams, in a princess who thinks herself chosen by fate, even in a simple soul.
But in the end they all shall fall, to darkness…and to me.