Nightmare Mom

“Get up, boy.” Your bed shifts, rocking you from the most pleasant dream you've had in months. You were warm for once; it was bright, and there was a scent in the air that you couldn't identify. It was fresh and natural, whatever it was. There was a figure in the distance and she usually didn't show up in this dream, but much about the dream was different. The details are already fading as a stern voice shouts you fully awake. “I SAID GET UP! I have no time for your foolishness today!”

You roll over and see your mother's cyan eyes glaring at you, as usual. Nightmare Moon never seemed to do anything else, particularly with you. Her mane was flowing particularly violently today, you notice. Something must have upset her before she got here, as waking up late usually just got her annoyed. Time was hard to gauge these days, due to it always being night. You were glad your fire was still burning, so you could see at least part of her looming above your bed. Too many times you had been awoken to her eyes glowering at you from total darkness.

Your mother loses her patience with your sluggishness and seizes your many covers before pulling them away. Frigid air slices through your black coat, causing you to involuntarily curl a bit and pull your wings closer. You seize a sheet with your magic and pull it back. “I am awake, Mother,” you growl.

“You are late, boy. Clean up, quickly, and get to work! And mind your tongue!” She turns to leave.

“I suppose it would kill you to call me Nebulus,” you mumble sarcastically, pulling yourself from your bed. It was built for two, but didn't ordinarily have a second occupant.

“What was that?” she snarls, looking squarely at you.

“At once, Your Grace,” you say quickly, straightening, your height almost matching hers, short only an inch or so. You remember the last time you actively talked back to her all too well. Your size never intimidated her like it did just about every other pony you'd met.

She turns and strides out, slamming the heavy wooden door. You glare after her, toss a log on your fireplace, then head to your bathroom. Like your room, it was a spartan affair, holding the necessities and little else. You had a bookshelf full of educational tomes and approved literature that you used to use often to teach yourself things like math and history, and there were a few foreign weapons seated on pedestals or mounted to the wall. These were the extent of the things you actually owned. There were also moldings and other assorted trims and immovable decorations that no commoner had, leading you to believe your room had once belonged to royalty. Your tub was one such ornate object, but that went largely unused as water tended to freeze on particularly cold days. Today was not such a day, as you turn on your sink to find the icy water flowing. You splash some on your face and quickly wash the parts of you that were most in need of it, then head back out to your room, thinking about your dream.

That figure... you still remember her. You never got close enough to her to see clearly, but she always looked familiar. She always stood or sat on a hill, framed by a full moon. Her mane flowed, somewhat like your mothers, but smoothly; gently, like a river. Every night that you had this dream, you tried to reach this figure, to see who she was. And every morning, either a guard would wake you, or if he lost track of time, your mother would scream you awake before screaming at the guard, which you could hear her doing now. You feel like she is the only one who can tell time properly in this world.

You brush your blue mane and tail out neatly like you did each morning. It was more difficult than usual, with it beginning to become ethereal at the tips. It was a good thing you kept it at a moderate length. Mother would shout at you if it became unkempt. You briefly go over your routine and decide you'll have to skip your workout to avoid being later than you already were. You grab your immaculately kept armor from its mannequin, similar in style and color to what your mother wore, decorated with star fields and other stellar bodies, but with a chest more like the ones the old Royal Guard used to wear, and lined with furs to stave off the cold. The chest plate held a simple icon of your cutie mark: A shield with a sword pointing downwards behind it, added when your cutie mark arrived. As you put it on, you inspect each piece for dust, smudges, or scratches. Of course, there were none, but she'd shout more if there was any sort of imperfection on it. She'd shout at you anyway for being late, but there was no avoiding lecture right now.

You head to the throne room, trying to remember your dream again. That hill... it was near... Ponyville? Was that the town? It had to be; you remember seeing what you're sure were apple trees behind it. They looked so alive; so lush, so much like the pictures in the books Mother never let you read, not like the pitiful things now growing under the artificial lights. And the grass felt so good, tickling your legs as you galloped through, trying to reach that lovely figure. Once, you thought you caught a glimpse of cyan eyes, so different from your mother's, so full of love and affection, but it was such a short glimpse before you awoke that you weren't sure. Once in a while, you even thought she was smiling at you.

“There you are. At least you groomed yourself properly,” Nightmare Moon says. You had hoped you wouldn't be at the throne room already. It was a simple room: Obsidian throne at one end on a raised dais, a midnight blue carpet leading up to it, and plain tall windows lining its length. You had heard there were once stained glass portraits in those windows. She strides toward you as you snap to attention. “This guard tells me that there has been unusual activity around the western gate. Investigate. You know what to do with them if you find any.”

“At once, your majesty,” you say, playing the perfect little soldier.

She strides past you with no further words, and you head for the west gate, stopping only to grab food. You know you're supposed to bring guards with you, but they felt more like an obstacle than help. You were more than capable in a fight; you knew it, they knew it and all of Equestria knew it. A pile of broken bodies was testament to that, all at your hooves. Once or twice, a pony threw rotten fruits at you, but the guards were on them in seconds. Only once did you order them away immediately, and for that, you received your own beating from Mother for displaying weakness.

“My Prince?” a guard near a torch prompts you. “Are you well?”

“Fine!” you snap at him, wings flaring. You then take a breath, composing yourself. “I am quite well.”

The guard looks up at you nervously. “You looked... distressed.”

You realize you're at the palace gate already. Time is flying today. “Have you noticed any strange activity lately?”

“Not personally, no.”

“I see. Carry on.” You stride past him and look around. The only thing you see is the numerous lit torches, carried by non-unicorns, and the moon high above, craters forming a silhouette of your mother. You cast a simple light spell to see what you were doing. You inspect the various nooks and crannies around the gate and the wall itself for a few dozen feet, your thoughts drifting once more. The figure, could it be your father? Mother never talked about him, and you had trouble imagining any pony brave enough or stupid enough to lay with her willingly. You imagine it would be like sleeping with a manticore.

No, this figure was definitely a mare, now that you think about it. It was too slender to be anything else. You made a mental note to conjure this dream again when you went to sleep, and reach this pony as fast as possible, if you could avoid the nightmarish part of it if it came up. Whoever she was, you had to see her -really see her- and know if you were only imagining the smile and the eyes.

Something strikes you in the head, something wet and pulpy. You spin around and see a pony turning to run. You reach out with your magic and seize the pony by its dirty brown tail, dragging him towards you across the pavement. You haul him up into the air by said tail, glaring into his face. “You dare strike me?!” you snarl.

The pony spits in your face. You wipe it off, and punch him square in the mouth. You do it again. And again. And again, your anger taking control. You're only dimly aware that you're drawing a crowd. Suddenly, an image of your mother's hoof racing towards your own face snaps into your mind, and you cease your punching, your anger chased away like a dog afraid of his master's whip. You look at the hoof you've been using, blood glistening off of the armor in the moonlight. You're glad that no pony from the crowd has gotten close enough to light your face, or they would see your horrified expression.

You drop the pony and stride away as fast as you can, trying not to think about it. You try to adopt an annoyed expression, as though you've just smashed a bug under your hoof and now have to clean off the guts. You've seen your mother use it so many times before; it comes to you surprisingly easy. You hear a scuffle of hooves behind you, likely ponies moving to help the stallion.

You barely remember entering the castle or returning to your room. You don't recall passing your mother, but surely she'd say something about the fact that you're trailing blood on her clean floors. You toss your helmet onto your bed, turn on your sink and begin scrubbing your hoof off. You can only think about your armored hoof smashing into that young stallion's face, over and over again, and the all too familiar rage that overcame you. Your thoughts turn to the figure in your dreams, but now she doesn't look happy to see you, she looks... disappointed. You scrub harder.

“Boy, why is there blood on my floor!?” Oh no. You quickly shut off the faucet and step out to face your mother. She scowls at you. “Well?”

“Rebels,” you answer automatically. “Just one. I taught him a lesson.”

“And you felt the need to track that filth's blood into my palace?” She slaps you. You stumble, but ultimately remain standing. “Did you bring him in for questioning?”

You hesitate. “No.” You'd be in even bigger trouble for lying, when she found out.

She slaps you again, harder. You remain standing, but you begin to taste something coppery. “IDIOT! Where did you learn to be this stupid? I certainly never taught you this!”

“You never taught me much of anything,” you spit, your own anger rising.

Your mother's glare turns to open fury. “HOW DARE YOU!” No slap this time, but a full punch, right in the snout. You briefly flash to the stallion from the street as you stumble backwards and bump into a dresser. “I GIVE YOU A HOME, I GIVE YOU PURPOSE, AND I AM REPAID LIKE THIS?! WITH DISOBEDIENCE AND INCOMPETENCE?!” Another punch. “I NEVER WANTED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE, AND YET I GAVE YOU A LIFE OTHER PONIES CAN ONLY DREAM OF!” And another. You're on the ground now. “YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, YOU LITTLE WORM!” One more punch. You're certain your nose is bleeding. She leans in, her face less than an inch from yours, her voice a hiss. “All I ask for in return is for you to do as you are told! Why is this so much to ask?”

“And why is it too much to ask for you to be a mother for once? Hm?” She leans back, but you close the distance as you stand, your own rage boiling over. “All I ever get from you is lectures, orders, and shouting! 'Do this, do that, clean up, wake up, and on and on AND ON!' ALL YOU WANT IS ANOTHER OBEDIENT SERVANT! I AM NOT YOUR SERVANT, I AM YOUR SON!”

For once, she has no words for you. Her face, however, is a sculpture of pure rage.

You compose yourself as much as you can. You can dimly feel a stabbing pain in your heart as you think about her words, but you push it aside. It no longer matters. “If you don't want me, and I am as useless as you say, then get rid of me like you do every pony else who fails you.” You stare at her defiantly.

And then the hitting comes, harder than you've ever been hit before. You're on the floor in a heartbeat, your mother's hoof coming down at you again and again. You feel teeth come loose, your vision blurs, blood fills your mouth, and then-

She stops. Her hoof is poised to strike again as she glares at you, but as you look into her eyes so full of hatred, your thoughts turn to the figure in your dreams.

She pulls away, and wipes her hoof off on your coat. “Consider your every breath from this moment forward as yet another gift from me, boy,” she spits at you and walks away. She turns to you at the door. “And if you ever show me such defiance again, I will kill you.” The door slams shut so hard you can swear you hear it crack.

You spit blood out after her, rolling slowly onto your stomach. You feel lightheaded from the beating, both physical and verbal, but you manage to drag yourself to the sink and begin washing yourself. You'll definitely need to see the doctor, though. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your black coat is matted with blood, and there's what looks like a cut just below your horn. You're definitely missing several teeth, and one of your eyes is swelling shut. You look into your still good eye, only dimly aware of the pain encroaching on you. You used to think it looked much like your mother's, but now...

It looks like the ones from the figure in your dreams.