Chapter 3: Separation, Loneliness, and Isolation
"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym." ~Stephen King
Sweetie Belle stumbled past the gates of Denial without so much as a glimpse of the bloody and spike-filled body of the corrupted No One, who hung on the right side of the gate like a mounted trophy. The weight of the body caused the corpse to slowly drag itself earthward, causing the spikes to tear through the flesh. The intestines of No One had already spilled onto the ground like a yellowish streamer, and now the walls of the stomach were bulging out as the spikes continued to draw themselves through his unprotected flesh.
As Sweetie Belle trotted beyond the gate, the mist got thicker, and thicker, and thicker. Soon she could not see where to put her hoofs next.
"I better go slower," sighed Sweetie Belle, "Or soon I will be unable to tell how to get back."
Despite the fact that she said that out loud, she knew very well she could never go back, whether she liked it or not. Not by virtue of the fact that the dead body of Sir No One hung like a tangled up puppet on the flesh-rending spikes of the gates of Denial, but because she could neither see forward, nor backwards… or was it up and down now?
Now trotting at a much slower pace, Sweetie Belle put her head low to the ground, in an attempt to ensure that she was still even walking on the ground. It was a good thing she did, however, because suddenly she found herself quite out of earth to walk on. She gave a squeak of terror as she attempted to quickly backpedal. Sadly, she had been walking a mite too fast, and her momentum carried her straight over the edge. Giving out a heart-rending scream, Sweetie Belle toppled over the precipice and fell straight into the abyss yawning before her. However, after a moment of screaming, Sweetie Belle realized that she had not reached terminal velocity, nor was she falling down quickly at all. She was, rather, floating, like a leaf, through the air.
"Some good luck at last," muttered Sweetie Belle, her blood-and-dirt-covered body still shaking from the scare.
As she floated down, she noticed that other things were floating down with her… a great many other things, in fact. Sweetie Belle blinked as she recognized some of the objects floating alongside her: gamecolts, LEGO buildings, CDs, pencils, books, and other toys.
"How curious," murmured Sweetie Belle, lost in thought. After a dozen more minutes, she could see through the mist as it began to thin out, and she could see the bottom of the abyss she had fallen into earlier. The ground below was covered in massive heaps and piles of the everyday object Sweetie Belle had seen floating along with her. As she got closer to the ground, and the mist cleared further, Sweetie Belle could make out that she was floating into some kind of dumpster. Massive wired fences circled the colossal piles of garbage, and a small building was positioned by the only gate that cut through the fencing. A giant sign was perched on top of the building, and looked quite out of proportion when compared to its counterpart. The sign read: "Landfill of the Isolated. All Forgotten Objects Lose Hope." Sweetie Belle cocked her head to one side as she scanned the sign. It really did not make any sense. However, she did not have much more time to consider this strange billboard because she finally made a touch-down on the top of one of the greatest piles of junk.
Without so much as a push, Sweetie Belle began to tumble, head-over-hoofs, down the pile. The pile was so great that it took five minutes of tumbling, slipping, and sliding before she came to a stop at the bottom. Nonetheless, when she did come to a stop, she was quite scratched and bruised from the ordeal. She did not really care, however, because this terribly twisted land had made her stop caring about a great deal of things.
Shaking her head as if to clear it from the jarring sensation of tumbling, Sweetie Belle began to make her way to the building that had accompanied the exit to this giant emporium of lost items. It took poor Sweetie Belle a whole thirty minutes to make her way to the building, due to the sheer vastness of the landfill. Nevertheless, she made it finally to the doorstep of the building.
Sweetie Belle pressed her ear to the door, hoping to hear a voice, and thus confirm her desire that it was at least inhabited. If it was inhabited, then perhaps that said denizen could let her through the gate. Once again, luck was on Sweetie Belles side (this makes me wonder for how long, though) as she most certainly could pick out a monotonous female voice, saying this:
"Days… Each one is a gift, no doubt, mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes. Today begins cold and bright, the ground heavy with snow and the thick masonry of ice, the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. Through the calm eye of the window everything is in its place but so precariously this day might be resting somehow on the one before it, all the days of the past stacked high like the impossible dishes entertainers used to build on stage. No wonder you find yourself perched on the top of a tall ladder hoping to add one more. Just another Wednesday, you whisper, then holding your breath, place this cup on yesterday's saucer without the slightest clink… Then suddenly… It falls."
Sweetie Belle shivered. There was something about what this disembodied voice had just said that gave her an eerie feeling. However, she quickly shook off the feeling and rapped on the door.
The monotonous voice stopped muttering to itself. There was a long pause, and then hoof-steps began to approach the door. They drew nearer and nearer, until they were just outside the entrance. Then the handle turned and the door swung open a notch. An eye peered through the door.
"Who are you?" asked the voice, "What kind of toy are you?"
"I'm not a toy, ma'am," said Sweetie Belle timidly, "I am a filly."
"You are no such thing," snorted the voice, "Only lost toys and objects end up here. If you were a lost pony, then you would be somewhere else."
"But I am here and I am not a toy!" exclaimed Sweetie Belle, "Isn't there some sort of exception?"
"Of course not, little toy," snapped the voice, "The laws are almost as absolute as the laws of physics! If there is an object on a chessboard, it just has to be a chess piece, and if there is an object on the checkerboard, it just has to be a checker piece! It is as simple as one plus one is equal to three!"
Sweetie Belle just groaned. She then noticed that blood had begun to dribble from a gash above her left eye. It did not hurt, but it was most certainly threatening to blind her. Sighing, she reached up with a hoof and dabbed gingerly at the wound.
The eye peered closely at her. "The rulebook never said anything about lost toys that bled," muttered the voice. Suddenly the door swung open. Sweetie Belle's mouth dropped when she saw the pony that opened it… It was Rarity! Or, at least, it LOOKED like Rarity. She had indigo hair, azure eyes, and a light grey coat with a unicorn horn. However, her left eye had been replaced with a diamond carved into the shape of a screw-head, and a large tarnished silver gear jutted out of her back. Her hooves had been replaced with rusty steel blocks.
"R-Rarity?" gasped Sweetie Belle, unable to believe her eyes.
"Rarity?" said the pony, "Whoever is that? I am the Collector! I am in charge of all inanimate objects that go into isolation. If you lose something, and it is all alone, it ends up here… just like the ponies that lose their way. However, they end up in a maze, not a landfill."
Sweetie Belle, who was still staring at the Rarity-look-alike, just shook her head in bemusement. "Are you sure you're not Rarity?"
"Well, I was the element bearer of Miserliness for a bit," muttered the pony, scratching her meticulous mane, "But that was many an eon ago. No… my name is the Collector. Now stop asking so many questions and get in. It smells simply terrible out here."
Sweetie Belle, eyes still wide with bewilderment, trotted in after the Collector.
"So," said the Collector after slamming the door shut, "What brings you here?"
"I'm looking for the Maze of Isolation," said Sweetie Belle, still staring at the Collector.
"Ah yes, all ponies who have encountered The Grief are," sighed the Collector, "Fortunately The Grief has no interested in inanimate objects, so I myself am generally safe."
"Could you… could you mayhap point out the way to the Maze of Isolation, Rarity… er… Collector?" asked Sweetie Belle.
"Of course, of course," replied the Collector, "I will let you go on one condition: while you are on your way to the Maze of Isolation, if you happen to come across my way, please be so kind as to return it to me. I lost it quite a few years ago, and I do believe it could be a mite dirty by now."
Sweetie Belle blinked. The whole request had just gone straight over her head. However, she nodded slowly and said, "Okay… Could you help me then?"
The Collector nodded, "I will let you go through the gate. Once you are out, head east, west, north, south, up, or down. Either way, if you want to find Isolation, it will undoubtedly find you. Just trot off and you will run into it… or it will run into you. Good luck little filly!"
With that, the Collector trotted over to a set of multi-colored levers and buttons that were beside the door they had just entered. She pushed one of the levers in like a button, and pulled down a button like a lever. A loud buzzing noise sounded, and the gate to the landfill slowly slid open. The Collector opened the door again and said, "Out you go. Good luck! And don't forget about my lost way! I want it back!"
Sweetie Belle waved and smiled, believing for a fraction of a second that she was waving good-bye to her beloved sister. Then Sweetie Belle turned away and trotted through the gate. It was very misty beyond the boundaries of the landfill, but according to the Collector, direction no longer mattered. Thus, Sweetie Belle immediately picked a random direction and trotted off. Soon she was enveloped by the thick mist. The silence was absolute, and not even the sound of her hoofs, or even her own beating heart, could be heard in the soundlessness that pressed against her ears like a weight. Fortunately, just before she was sure her mind would snap in two, Sweetie Belle saw a massive wall looming in front of her. There was a small, neatly carven wood door set in the wall. Above the door were the words: "Maze of Isolation. For those who wish to grovel in The Grief."
Sweetie Belle bit her lip. She did not like the sound of the last part. However, Madness had told her what she needed to do, and it seemed like you could only trust the mad ones of this land anyway. After a bit more fervent though, Sweetie Belle chose to trust Madness, and approached the door. She pushed it open (and it screamed) and trotted inside. The second she did, the door dissolved into nothing, and was replaced by seamless masonry-work, as if the door had never existed in the first place.
Immediately Sweetie Belle was struck with a sense of claustrophobia, and she began to hyperventilate. However, after a minute of panic, Sweetie Belle got her emotions once again under control. The moment she did that, she began to take stock of her surroundings. The Maze of Isolation was most certainly a maze. High-walled stone wall stretched off in all directions, and the sound-consuming mist pressed in from all sides. This most certainly was isolation, in its finest form.
Sweetie Belle gulped. The silence was unbearable, and she could already feel sanity slipping from her grasp. Shaking her head vigorously, desperately trying to clear her mind of the suicidal thoughts that were beginning to creep upon her, Sweetie Belle began to gallop down the stone halls, desperately trying to find something… anything. Unfortunately, she could not see anything past the twists and turns of the massive maze, and the depressing mists threatened to overcome her.
However, just as she was about to go insane, she ran into somepony. Literally. How remarkable is that? She was galloping at full speed when she rammed into a pony that was moving nonchalantly through one of the intersections of the maze. The two tumbled together for about a meter, before coming to a rather painful stop. Sweetie Belle sighed as she felt the gash above her eye reopening. Fresh blood began to ooze down once more.
The other pony sat up and rubbed his jaw ruefully. "You must watch where you are going," he said.
Sweetie Belle was about to apologize when her voice caught in her throat at the sight of the pony. He was a stallion, taller than she, with a blue mane and blue eyes. It was his skin that shocked her. It was bright yellow but was also covered in branding marks. These branding marks were shaped like locks and keys, and each branding mark shifted and danced about his body as if they had a life of their own (which, in all probability, they did).
"Who are you?" stuttered Sweetie Belle, staring in awe at the dancing branding marks.
"Me? Oh… I am Reagent Repudiation," said the pony, getting up onto all fours, "Pleased to meet you."
"Why do you look like that?" asked Sweetie Belle, still in awe.
"I deny any rumors you heard about these," commented Repudiation airily, "In fact, I deny everything and anything and nothing at the same time!"
"If you deny everything, then how will you ever know if something is right?" asked Sweetie Belle curiously, now overcoming her initial feeling of amazement.
"It doesn't matter! I deny your statement!" exclaimed Repudiation, "If I deny enough, then perhaps I will finally conquer Isolation! Denial and Isolation go hoof-in-hoof, you know."
"I am trying to find my way out as well!" exclaimed Sweetie Belle, "I just need to find Mrs. Which first…"
"I deny your statement!" yelled Repudiation loudly for no reason whatsoever.
"Can you help me find Mrs. Which?" asked Sweetie Belle.
"I deny your statement!" roared Repudiation lustily.
Sweetie Belle just winced. She was getting nowhere with this pony, but the thought of being left alone is this hellish maze was by far more terrible than spending time with this insane pony. Suddenly, an idea came into her head: reverse-psychology. Rarity had tried this strategy on her many a time and it had failed spectacularly each of those times, but this pony… Well, this it seemed that Reagent Repudiation was a different matter.
"I am going to find Mrs. Which by myself now," she said, trying desperately to sound smug, "And I know the exact way to where she is. You are not going to help me in any way."
"I deny it all!" bellowed Repudiation. He then grabbed one of her hoofs and dragged her along.
"Are you… are you NOT taking me to Mrs. Which?" asked Sweetie Belle, hoping leaping in her chest.
"I deny that statement!" was all that she got in reply. Nevertheless, it still fueled the fire of hope inside her. If she could find Mrs. Which, then she could get away from the maze… hopefully.
Soon the two were going at full speed, galloping through the many twists and turns that were trademark of the Maze of Isolation. The depressing mists of silence pressed in on them from all sides, but Sweetie Belle was running too fast to feel lonely. Suddenly they came to a stop. The walls that had been closing in on them from all sides abruptly widened to form a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a small house. It, like almost all the other buildings in the land of the MIND, was gutted by fire, and stood lonely and mournful amidst ashes and bleaching bones. However, in the center of the burning refuse and charred debris was a little old pony, not unlike Granny Smith of the Apple family. Next to her was a very large basket. That basket was piled high with tiny slips of paper. The old pony was very intent on pulling out two slips of paper, holding them high as if to compare them, and then tossing them into one of two piles that lay on her other side.
"Is this NOT Mrs. Which?" whispered Sweetie Belle, trying not to disturb the old pony from her work.
"I deny that statement!" roared Repudiation. Sweetie Belle blanched, and the old pony, apparently Mrs. Which, started and looked up. Sweetie Belle cowered, with her ears pressed against her skull, and awaited a terrible scolding for her interruption. However, instead of yelling at the little filly, Mrs. Which smiled and patted a spot next to her, indicating that Sweetie Belle should come and sit down by her.
Repudiation shook his head vigorously in denial and stood off to one side, observing the unfolding scene from a distance.
"What are you doing, ma'am?" asked Sweetie Belle tentatively, trying her best to push down the disgust and fear she had grown to feel towards all of the inhabitance of the MIND.
"Oh, I am considering the options," replied Which sagely.
"Options? Your options, Ma'am?" said Sweetie Belle.
"Oh no, not my options! THE options! All the options! That is what a Which does, you know," said Which.
"What does a Which do?" persisted Sweetie Belle, who was still unsure of what was going on.
"A Which is a pony who decides which options are the right options for a pony," said Which.
Sweetie Belle blinked. "Does this mean those ponies don't actually make the decisions on their own?"
Which chuckled good-humoredly. "Of course not, dear one. Ponies have no brains! How can they possibly make any decisions if they have nothing in their head?"
"But… if I have no brain, then how am I talking?" said Sweetie Belle slowly.
"I really couldn't say… But I am sure some ponies have less of no brain than others. It all boils down to your exposure to the educational system."
Sweetie Belle was still confused as ever, but she had gotten used to that feeling. "Well… Madness sent me to find you," said Sweetie Belle, "Can you help me get out of this terrible place and help me get into the Council of Wisdom?"
"I suppose I could. Let us consider your options," muttered Mrs. Which. She began to dig through her ridiculously massive pile of paper slips. The disturbance was very great, and the slips of paper began to flutter every which way. Sweetie Belle's eyes widened as she caught glimpses of some of the labels of the pieces of paper.
On them were printed things like: "Vinyl Scratch's Options," "Twilight Sparkle's Options," "Button Mash's Options," "Sunset Shadow's Options," "Rainbow Dash's Options," "Celestia's Options," and "Octavia's Options."
Sweetie Belle reached slowly for a small scrap of paper that read "Scootaloo's Options," but Mrs. Mrs. Which rapped her hoof sharply with her own.
"It isn't nice to consider other people's options without their consent," said Mrs. Which dryly. Sweetie Belle blushed, and withdrew her hoof.
After a bit more searching, Mrs. Which came across the wanted piece of paper.
"Here we go," sighed Mrs. Which, "Your options. Now we must consider your options and decide Which we must choose."
Sweetie Belle eagerly took the slip of paper and looked at it. Printed on it in large, glistening cursive were the words: "Option One: Leave the Maze. Option Two: Stay in the Maze."
"These are my options?" asked Sweetie Belle incredulously. She had expected something a bit more profound.
"Those are," replied Mrs. Which gravely, "Now let me decide Which is the correct option and Which is not. Then we can proceed from there."
"No!" exclaimed Sweetie Belle, "Let me consider my OWN options!"
Mrs. Which stared at Sweetie Belle with strange expression of sadness. Then she sighed, "Very well. What option do you choose?"
"I have decided that I want option one… I want to leave the maze," said Sweetie Belle promptly.
Mrs. Which nodded her head. "A commendable choice, young filly. Perhaps you have very little of no brain."
Sweetie Belle dipped her head in thanks. Then she said, "I'm sorry to bother you further, ma'am, but I need you to come with me. I need you to help me get into the Council of Wisdom."
Mrs. Which's face paled a little, but then she smiled a small smile. "Oh, you don't need ME. You just need the living key of a Which. Just like you need the living key of the What, or the When."
"Well… how do I get the living key? Do you have it?" asked Sweetie Belle slowly.
Mrs. Which nodded her head mournfully. "Sadly, I do."
Sweetie Belle cocked her head to one side. Why did this pony seem so sad now?
"Well?" said Sweetie Belle after a pause, "Where can I get it from you?"
Suddenly Mrs. Which pointed behind them, into the air. "Look!" she exclaimed fervently, "A cantankerous Calabaty!"
Sweetie Belle had literally no idea what Mrs. Which had said, but turned around nevertheless. The moment her back was turned, she heard a tearing, and then a squelching noise.
Sweetie Belle immediately turned around and screamed in horror at the sight that met her eyes.
Mrs. Which had somehow managed to tear out her own heart with her bare hoofs. (Now here is food for thought: is it literally possible to tear out one's own heart? And if so, what does that action represent figuratively?) Ignoring the sight of Mrs. Which's lifeblood flowing out of her chest and into the ground, Sweetie Belle galloped up to her. It was too late, Mrs. Which was dead. However, written in blood next to the heart of Mrs. Which was the phrase: "This is the living key. Take it to the council."
Sweetie Belle promptly threw up with the prospect of having to carry that bloody mass with her.
She turned to Repudiation, who seemed in no way disturbed or perturbed by the grisly scene.
"I-I-I-I c-c-can't c-c-c-carry it," sobbed Sweetie Belle, breaking down in tears.
"I deny that!" shouted Repuidation. He pulled out a saddle bag (from literally nowhere, just like Pinkie Pie's party cannon) and tossed it onto Sweetie Belle's back. He then seized the needed organ from the ground and tossed it into the bag. Immediately blood began to seep through the bottom of the holder and drip onto the ground.
Sweetie Belle didn't do anything to stop it, but that was just because she was now crying too hard.
"I-I-I c-can't g-g-go o-on," she wailed.
"I deny that!" roared Repudiation. He picked Sweetie Belle bodily up with his hoofs and tossed her on his back. He then began to gallop at top speed through the maze. However, as they were galloping, Sweetie Belle began to drift further and further away from reality. Truth be told, she rather liked the feeling. The loss of everything she once knew ate away at her, and her initial reaction was simply to deny the reality of the situation. It buffered the immediate shock, and blocked everything out…
Suddenly Repudiation came to a stop. He came so suddenly to a stop, in fact, that Sweetie Belle flew straight over his head. As she scrambled onto all fours, she glanced up to see what had made him stop. Before them was a massive waterfall… of boiling blood. The smell was terrible, but Sweetie Belle's mind was still so intoxicated with the feeling of isolation that it did not really register with her.
At this point, she then noticed a charred and blackened sign beside the waterfall. It read: "For those who are not ready, but must go on… Prepare for the return of reality and the pain that goes with it. To the Garden of Anger."
"I don't want to go," said Sweetie Belle suddenly, "I should have stayed in the maze. Isolation is perfect."
"Denial!" shouted Reagent Repudiation. But, before he could say or do anything else… faint screaming could be heard.
Repudiation's eyes widened… The Grief was coming.
Sweetie Belle couldn't have cared less. Her mind was numb. Repudiation, on the other hoof, couldn't have cared more. Eyes wild with terror, the pony ran around in circles, screaming, "Not the Grief! Not the Grief! I deny it! I deny it!"
But no matter how much he tried to deny it, the Grief was coming… and it was coming for him. In a bubbling tidal wave of pure darkness, the Grief blasted upon the scene in a terrible cacophony and swallowed Repudiation up. At this moment, Sweetie Belle remembered what had happened each time Grief had consumed some pony. Eyes wide with terror, she began to back up. Suddenly her rump bumped against the sign beside the boiling waterfall of blood. She looked at it, and then noticed that it was a ground stake. Therefore, it had a pointed end. She pulled the sign out with her magic, and levitated it in front of her, doing her best to not pass out from the strain of levitating it above the ground. Just as she did this, the Grief deposited Repudiation on the ground and writhed away like a billion black snakes. Once again, the symptoms of corruption took a hold on another pony. Shoulders heaving, Reagent Repudiation went through a transformation. Suddenly he stood up like a bipedal creature. Then his front limbs fell off. In their place grew long tentacles with sharp razor-like claws at the end. At this point, the corrupted Repudiation turned around. Like all the other corrupted ponies Sweetie Belle had seen, this newly-made monster had no eyes, only eye socket leaking blood. His face looked like it had been grafted together from many different ponies' faces, with thick stitches running crisscross patterns across his face and muzzle. His body was now covered in what looked like self-inflicted cuts and scars.
"DeNIaL WiLl onLY mAKe tHE GriEF WOrsE!" howled the corrupted Reagent Repudiation.
With that, the monster charged Sweetie Belle. Sweetie Belle raised the stake to defend herself, but then her courage failed her. With a squeak of terror, Sweetie Belle turned tail and ran. Unfortunately, the stake was too large and cumbersome for her to move quickly, and she ended up tripping over her own hooves. She flipped over and landed on her back, belly up. Repudiation, with a triumphant bellow, leapt upon her… and impaled his stomach with the stake that Sweetie Belle had originally been holding.
Repudiation's stomach ruptured, and blood, half-digested food, and stomach fluids spilled over Sweetie Belle as Repudiation gurgled once and died.
Gagging and trying not to throw up, Sweetie Belle shoved the dead body off of her, and rolled over where she lay, panting. Then she noticed Madness, standing off to one side.
"Interesting," murmured Madness, "Your first kill."
"I didn't kill him," gasped Sweetie Belle, unsuccessfully trying to hold back her tears. In less than a second the floodgates of her eyes were opened, and she began to cry and wail in earnest once more.
"I didn't kill him!" she sobbed.
Madness trotted up to Sweetie Belle and wiped some of the gore and stomach acids off of Sweetie Belle's once well-groomed coat with his large overcoat.
"This is no time for mourning," said Madness softly, "The Grief already does most of that. You need to keep going."
"I don't want to!" wailed Sweetie Belle as she continued to sob. She just wanted to lay there and die. The cold embrace of death seemed like the better alternative to this living hell.
"It is not a matter of what you want to do, but what you must do," replied Madness briskly in his quiet voice.
"I just want to go back," whimpered Sweetie Belle, "I want everything to go back to normal."
"You can't go back to normal because you were a different pony then," snorted Madness in hushed tones, "And I am sure that pony would not be too partial to you taking their 'normal' from them."
Sweetie Belle buried her head in her hooves. "I can't go on."
"Of course you can," whispered Madness, "All it takes is putting one hoof in front of another, and then another, and then another. Next thing you know you are at the end, disregarding the time in the middle. But if you give them wings, I do suppose they would fly by you gratefully."
Sweetie Belle sighed. She had gotten used to Madness's babbling, and knew that he was, for the most part, right. She then got up on all fours and looked at the boiling waterfall of blood.
"How am I to get beyond there?" she sniffled.
"You go through it," replied Madness simply, "Beyond the waterfall of Hot Blood is a door. The door leads to the Garden of Anger. In there you will find Mr. Whether."
"I don't want to go through there," said Sweetie Belle in shock. The thought of pushing through that fall of blood was terrible. "I can't go through there! It's unthinkable!"
"Well then," whispered Madness, "I suggest you don't think. Many a pony does that many a minute. It is rather easy, and sometimes rather helpful."
Sweetie Belle sighed in resignation. There was nothing for it, and her mind had hardened against such carnage mostly anyway. Closing her eyes tightly, Sweetie Belle trotted slowly towards the fall of boiling blood. Madness just grinned, and then vanished into thin air.
The stinking, thick, hot blood oozed about her and painted her a dark red as she pushed through, and the moment she made it to the other side, she vomited. However, she was through, and that was what counted… if one COULD count. It is rather an interesting thought though… do those who are mad actually count?
Another step must be taken. You move your other knight from B1 to C3. The Unknown moves a pawn forward from D7 to D5.