Embracing Madness
By TalltalePony
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Daemons and Dreams
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The writer embraces madness. He hadn't understood what that meant until the psychoses consumed him for the first time. No, not consumed, for consumption suggests a passivity on his part. He had invited them; he had made a deal with them.
Flickering candle light made the shadows of stocked shelves dance against the stone floor and wooden walls, buffeted by an unabated draft that smelled of mildew and a hint of baked bread.
He, an earth pony, of dirt in color, scratched away at a parchment atop the moldy pile of boards he called his desk, his flank supported by a cushion flat enough to pass for a pillow case. He wrote stories of love and beauty because his life was too poor for either. Tales of herds bound by struggle; adventurers deprived of hearth and home; daemons caught in webs of empty gesture and sacrifice. Whatever machination obtained clarity in his mind earned its actuality, and another piece of him was lost forever.
Today (or perhaps tonight, since he was never good at tracking time), the point of his quill had stitched together words for uncounted hours. But if his aim was to weave a tapestry, the result was no better than a quilt. No, not even that, for even quilts have consistent tiles. He could barely manage that much; his paragraphs were mush, mashed between thin slices of cuckoo. He was aiming for story structure, but what he got was story soup.
He cast a sullen gaze at his candle; but sullen became serious, became panicked, when he noticed its dim flame. He bit his lip and darted his gaze about the surrounding darkness. A familiar unease settled in his gut like a tape worm nestling in his intestines. It drained what peace he’d wrestled from the monotony of his current project.
He reached a wary hoof to the side of his moldy-pile-of-desk, into an inconspicuous, brown box, and pulled out a fresh candle and match. He set the match before him and turned the candle over in his hooves. Even at a distance from his nose, its odor was strong and unplaceable (somewhere between blueberry and compost heap), as though its creator were adverse to consistency. But, horrible as they were, these candles, crafted from yellow wax, around red wicks and into thick cylinders, were as fortresses against vengeful hordes to him. The darkness was unforgiving and ever-present. And so, as he had done an uncountable number of times before, he waited for the light to fade, so he could create another. No two candles, after all, could burn at the same time. It was one of His rules.
The flame flickered, sputtered and waned… Then it began to die. His heart assaulted his rib cage and a cold sweat caught broke on his brow.
The room went dark. His breath became cold shudders, and he fumbled around in front of him. Match? Candle? Good. He flicked the tip of the wooden stick against the bottom of a hoof and brought it to the new wick.
The warm flame flared to life; the cold fled in its wake, and his shudders were replaced by calm, though rasped, breaths. Once again, he had survived the ritual. His eyes darted up, to the wall before him, and he beheld a small collection of news clippings pasted to it by various means, each being a pinprick of light. T.P.’s Tales they were titled, and T.P.’s tales they were. One, a story about ogres; another, a poem about the mysteries of the heart; a third consisting of imaginary letters to Princess Luna; and many more of many other subjects. They were his purpose and his drive and, true to the terms of the agreement made with Him, as long as they remained points of pride, as long as T.P. could glean purpose from them, he would be protected during the candle change.
After a few moments of aimless admiration of his work, he leaned back, into an absent gaze. Above, if he strained to listen, the clamor of hooves and faint voices reminded him that there were others in Equestria. It couldn’t have been too late; Sugar Cube Corner was still open, and it wasn’t exactly known for its late hours.
The young stallion stood and stretched his neck, then his hind legs. Cracking, snapping, popping-- Oh! Cramp. He shook the affected limb, then turned to face the many shelves that occupied the majority of his “room.” If he couldn’t come up with anything resembling a coherent tale, he would have to follow in the hoofsteps of great writers, from Homare to Trotsoevsky, and perform a ritual which summoned the muses and freed his creativity from the shackles of Tartarus. It was time to pace.
His hooves clacked and clopped as he began weaving his way through the rows of flour bags, cookware and cardboard. The rusted gears in his head creaked to life; he was soon lost in fantasy. The cellar melted away and his vision filled with scenes of battle, tragedy and triumph. Perhaps a retelling of the affair between Princess Platinum and Chancellor Puddinghead during the Crisis of Two Suns, or of Dark Equestor’s reign before Tartarus was sealed. Maybe his readers would like an account of Discord’s rise to power? Oh, the possibilities! He became lost in the grandeur of Equestrian history and myth; so lost, in fact, that he didn’t notice the stairs to the bakery were creaking.
A giggle caught his ear, and the images dropped away. He paused and peered around.
“Hello?”
No response. He shrugged and returned to his pacing daydreams. There hadn’t been a dramatic account of the Civil War for generations; maybe he could do some research on Lunar and Solar Guards who participated and--
His thoughts were cut by another giggle, louder this time. He stopped again and an anxious flutter flared in his chest.
He stomped a hoof. “Come out! I know you’re there!” But received no reply. There was no denying what he had heard; his ears swiveled in search and he stilled his breathing.
Silence. It choked the air; even the ambient sounds from above had become stifled. He shifted his hooves and scanned the rows of shelves. What little light there was didn’t aid him. The flicker of his candle toyed with him; its every shift invited a flitter of shadows; one draft brought them all to center, as though they would devour him, and another made them flee, as though called away by Sombra himself. The young stallion pushed an audible swallow past the boulder lodged in his throat. He retreated to a nearby wall while his eyes shifted between every crevice, cranny and hollow.
He halted when his flank pressed against the rugged, cold wood. His attention turned toward the stairwell and he calculated how long it would take him to reach it, and how long it would take him to be caught. But before his nerves were steeled enough to try, an unsubtle figure zipped by his periphery.
He snapped his neck toward the movement, but could only catch another waltz of shadows.
“Alright, that’s enough! Stop playing around!”
Another giggle tickled his ear.
Nope. Nope. Nope. He ducked behind a shelf stocked with pots and grabbed the biggest he could find, then plopped it on his head. He clutched a large lid and dug up a ladle, to be his shield and sword respectively, and edged around the side of the shelf.
A wary glance to the left, a wary glance to the right; nothing. He sighed and returned his attention to the stairs. It had to be, what, about twenty or so paces away? If he could make it to the base, escape was assured. He gripped the lid-shield in his teeth and wrapped his tail around the ladle-sword, then crouched and anchored his hooves on the ground. Easy enough; just one sprint away from freedom. He could do it! Yes… Just a sprint. Okay! Go!
His body didn’t move.
Okay, false start! No, his legs shouldn’t have been shaking, but they were just eager. Yes, eager. Okay! Go!
He lifted a hoof, then returned it to the ground.
Okay, that was a practice step! He wiggled his hips and gritted the lid handle between his chompers. There was no turning back now! He flicked his tail out and pawed at the ground. This time there would be no--
Giggle
He jumped higher than he thought he could, and dashed toward the stairs without regard for whatever plan he’d half-baked. Metal, mesh and whatever other junk was stored in his “room” came crashing down around him in the wake of the uncoordinated flailing that he called running. He weaved left, past an oncoming bag of flower, under a tipping shelf, and over three rolling-pin-hazards. Not today, obstacles! His goal was in reach; he managed a grin behind his makeshift shield. He stretched out a hoof and slammed it down on the first step. Victory!
“Hi, T.P.!”
“Oomph!”
He would probably have felt the wind knocked out of him if he’d been breathing during his mad dash, but all he could manage was a pained cry toward the body that lunged at him from the stair case. He lost grip of his sword and shield and, when his head hit the ground, his pot helmet rattled and filled his ears with a disorienting wail. Maybe that hadn’t been a good idea.
But his misery had only begun. The offending body settled atop him and pinned him on his back, and two hooves stabbed down into his flesh, digging and poking at his most sensitive spots with a surgeon’s precision. He flailed his legs and tried to roll away, but every movement was met by more resistance and greater weight atop him. He was helpless.
“Argh! Ah, by Celestia! No! Stop!”
He felt his face flush and rational thought fade, replaced, at first, by fear and frustration. But they, too, soon abated.
“No! No! I give up! Uncle!”
They were usurped by an uncontrolled bout of laughter. He gasped for air through the blows against his body, but his lungs could never quite fill themselves. His chest started to burn and he heaved through another conniption.
“No! Please! I… Argh!”
The tickle torture became light, then ended, and he struggled to regain composure, sprawled on the cold, stone floor, breathless. He looked into the bright, blue eyes of his captor and, though not quite free of his giggle-fit, managed a grimace.
“Hello… Pinkamena.”
She grinned and adjusted her weight atop him. “I told you to call me Pinkie, silly. All my friends do!”
He frowned. “Oh, no. We’re not going through that again. We’re friends, Pinkamena, but you know I don’t like nicknames.”
“But you call yourself T.P.!”
“That’s different. That’s a penname.”
“Oh! So if I became a writer, you’d call me Pinkie?”
“Not if you tell me that’s why you started writing… Now get off of me.”
She giggled again. “What’s the magic word?”
He deadpanned. “Genocide.”
“Huh? No, silly! Isn‘t that the name of a videogame system?”
“I uh… What?” He thought for a moment, then decided to let it drop. A sigh escaped his lips. “Please?”
She leaned forward until their muzzles were touching and smiled at him through half-lidded eyes. The tickle of her breath, her touch, her smell; they sent a shiver down his back and he struggled to keep his expression firm.
“Right.” She pecked him on the nose, earning another blush, then pushed off of him.
T.P. remained still for, perhaps, a moment longer than he should have, then shook himself and rolled over, and wobbled to his hooves. He surveyed the mess made by his attempted escape and felt a weight drop in his stomach.
“Crap. I had just straightened this place out, too. The Cakes are going to have my head on a plate.”
“What? No they won’t! They don’t bake ponies anymore.”
“I don’t mean that lit-- Wait, what?”
“Oh, nothing!” She grinned. Though it did little to reassure him, he, as was the custom when dealing with the pink, party pony, let it drop.
“Right… Well, now I have to clean again. Why are you down here, anyway?”
“To visit you, of course!”
He raised an eyebrow. “No, seriously.”
“Seriously! Well, that and I have a friend I want you to meet.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time for that, Pinkamena. I’m very busy.”
“Really? ’Cause it looked like you were just walking in circles.”
“I wasn’t just walking in circles; I was trying to come up with ideas… And how long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough to see you walking in circles!”
“Right. Well, like I said, I’ve got a lot to do.” He looked around the cellar, eyeing the toppled shelves, spilled flower and scattered implements with disdain. “And my list of tasks has just grown.”
“Hmm…” She raised a forehoof to her muzzle and looked around the room. “Oh! I know! What if I help you clean? That way you’ll have time to meet my friend.”
“No, I don’t really think…” He paused and furrowed his brow, then gazed over the mess again. “Actually, that… Might not be a bad idea.”
She clapped her hooves together. “Great!”
“It occurs to me that this was probably your intention.”
“Well, duh! I wouldn’t have offered to help you if I didn’t plan to help.”
“That’s not what I… Never mind. Let‘s just get this over with.”
The two set about restoring order, making better time than T.P. imagined possible. Apparently, his pink friend had been responsible for cellar organization before he took on the task. She seemed to be responsible for quite a bit, despite her bubbly character. Even when he first moved in several weeks before, she was tending to the baby Cakes while preparing the next day’s specials. How she managed such boundless reserves of energy, he would likely never know.
They worked in silence for some time, him pushing aright and restocking the several shelves that had fallen over and her sweeping and wiping spilled powders and liquids. It was after he’d readjusted and began replacing the items on the last fallen shelf that she spoke up again.
“How come you don’t come up more often?”
He turned to her, an eyebrow raised at the sudden inquiry. “What do you mean? I surface at least once a day…”
“Yeah, to eat! Don’t you have any friends? I know I’d be sad if I didn’t have any.”
He shot her a playful frown. “Oh, so now we’re not friends?”
She giggled. “Not me, silly. I live here too, so I don’t count. And neither do the Cakes. I mean, you’ve been in Ponyville for almost a year, but no pony ever visits you. Remember your welcome party? Like everypony in town came to meet you! You didn’t make any friends?”
He thought for a moment, then perked up. “Bonbon and Lyra are my friends. We saved the town from that Timberwolf attack, remember?”
“Psh! You mean they saved the town and you hid behind Fluttershy’s cottage.”
Oh yeah, that was how that went down. That little, prick rabbit of hers even tried to give up his hiding place.
He stacked a few bags on the bottom shelf, to delay an immediate answer. She continued on in spite of him.
“Oh! Oh! What about Ace! I mean, you guys have to be friends 'cause you lived with him before his cottage burned down.”
T.P. winced and shifted his hooves. “Um… I don’t think we’re on the best of terms.”
“Oh.”
Silence reigned for a while after that, save for the sound of rustling bags, pots and other sundries. He was content to let the conversation die, but she seemed to have different plans. As he set about replacing the last items on the top shelf, she spoke up again.
“You’ve gotta have some friends. Didn’t you and Berry go out for salt and cider a few times?”
“Yeah! See? I have friends.”
“Oh, but wait, then you got into that fight when she called your writing… What did she say?”
He sighed. “She called it stilted.”
“Yeah! Kinda silly though; you don’t write on stilts. Aw, but I guess she doesn’t count, then.”
“…”
Ah, sweet silence once more. It lasted long enough that he thought the peace was secure this time. He set about pushing a few boxes around and clearing away some broken glass, intent on leaving the cellar in a better state than it had been before their tussle. He brushed the shards into a dustpan, then moved on to a few cobwebs he’d spied in the corners, but his pleasant monotony was again interrupted by unwanted probing.
“C’mon, T.P.! You’ve gotta have friends! I dunno what I would do without all of my friends. I mean, I have so many that it would be really hard for me to lose them all; like, I would have to do something really bad for them all to stop being my friends; but, still, if I did do something that bad, I’d be so sad.”
He continued about his work, but found himself flexing his jaw more than before.
“Why don’t you talk to Twilight? I mean, she doesn’t come outside a lot either, but she’s really good at being friends! Princess Celestia even gave her wings because of how good she is at it! Can you believe it?”
His flexing jaw turned into gritted teeth. “Pinkamena…”
“And if you just tried a little bit, I’m sure you’d make plenty of friends! I mean, everypony it town is so friendly, but they all think it’s kinda weird that you never want to talk, even though I try to tell them that you’re not that bad and--”
“Will you just drop it!” The words escaped his lips before he could think about it, and with more venom than he intended. He stopped his cleaning, his jaw held agape at the outburst. He turned to his pink friend to mouth an apology, but the words died in his throat at the sight of her stunned eyes and drooping ears.
“Oh… I… okay. Sorry, T.P.”
“No, wait. I…” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
She gave him a weak smile. “It’s okay.”
Was that code for ’it’s not okay’? He felt a nauseating pang of regret bubble in his stomach. It was going to stay there until he made up for his outburst, wasn’t it? Just great.
“Look, Pinkamena, I’m okay with just a few friends. Really.” He eyed her expression carefully, to see which combination of words would do the trick. “… But, you know, we’re pretty much done down here. You said you had a friend for me to meet? Maybe we’ll hit it off, and I can add one more to my, uh, short list.”
She perked up; her eyes flashed with a twinkle of possibility and her grin gradually returned. Was it really that important to her that he made friends? It was… Strange. He’d never met anypony so interested in his contentment. He bit his lip and shifted his hooves.
“You mean it? You really want to meet her?”
He forced back the urge to grimace and managed, instead, the most convincing smile he could muster. “Yeah. Sounds like… Fun.”
She gasped through a wide grin, then shot up the stairs. The speed of her recovery reminded him of a rebounding spring; he wondered if she often bounded through her moods in that way. Wouldn’t that get tiring? Oh well.
He brushed away a few webs and admired the dimming glow of candlelight against the adjacent wall.
Wait, dimming… glow?
A panicked gasp sucker punched his lungs, and he turned to face his desk. The light was dying! A pool of wax had begun to dribble off the moldy boards and his precious flame sputtered. He dashed to its aid through the rows of newly reorganized clutter. Of course one of the delicate stacks of junk tipped and toppled in his wake, and the crash which caught his ears told him that he’d undone his and the party pony’s labor, but that was a small matter in comparison to being left in darkness.
He hastened to the box beside his desk and fumbled out a match and fresh candle. A cold sweat raced down the side of his head and into his eye, but the sting was nothing compared to the cold pinpricks of a dark room. His hooves shook and he watched the flame recede. But he had to remain calm; he reminded himself that, with his columns giving him a purpose, a reason to write, he would be kept safe until he lit the next candle. They were his sails in choppy seas. Points of pride earned by his hooves alone.
A warmth swelled in his chest, combating the despair nested in his gut.
Then the light died.
His hooves shook and he grasped at the items before him. Candle? Match? Good. He struck the wood against the bottom of a hoof and brought the newborn fire to the candle. The shadows were banished like so many daemons under Celestia’s sun. His crazed expression calmed, but his eyes retained flecks of tears unshed. He had survived again, but just barely this time. He shot a grateful glance to the collection of stories pasted to the wall, then sat back on his cushion (a little too hard; he mused that he’d be no worse off sitting directly on the stone).
An absent gaze flicked to the now crusted wax of his previous candle. Another mess for him to clean.
Faint voices and the tap of hooves caught his ears, coming from the stairwell. One was familiar and bubbly, but the other was… A new, but not unrecognized, feminine grumble. He turned his attention toward the creaking stairs, ignoring the fresh mess of cooking implements splayed across the stone floor.
The first to emerge was the expected, pink pony, grinning with her attention turned toward the second. T.P.’s eyes widened when he realized just who this “friend” was.
“T.P.,” his pink friend chirped, but halted and gasped when she saw the fresh mess. “What happened?!”
He waved his hoof and shot her an embarrassed smile. “I tripped.”
“Heh. You were right about this guy being off, Pinkie Pie,” the second voice, belonging to a renowned, cyan pegasus, chimed in. T.P. felt his smile fade, and his eyes darted about in nervous habit. He, of course, knew who Rainbow Dash was. How could he not; she zipped about Ponyville’s skies like the air currents were her personal playground. But he had never before spoken with her.
“I didn’t say that, Dashie! He just… has a bit of trouble with new ponies, is all.”
Rainbow rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like there’s a difference.”
T.P. glowered. If they were going to talk about him, they could at least wait until the knife in his back had bled him unconscious.
The mares maneuvered around the debris and stopped before him. T.P. rubbed a hoof against the back of his neck and put on his best nice-guy facade. “Nice to meet you… Rainbow Dash, right?”
She beamed and puffed out her chest. “The one and only. And you’re the pony who’s set up shop in my friends’ basement. Talltale, right?”
He nodded.
“So what do you do?”
“Well, I--”
“Oh! He’s a super-amazing writer!
His cheeks flushed and he turned to his pink friend. “Well, yes. I‘m pretty good at it…”
“Pretty good? You‘re great! Everypony I talk to about it thinks so. Well, I’ve only talked to the Cakes about it, but they think so!”
Rainbow scratched at her muzzle inquisitively. “Oh yeah? What do you write?”
“Oh, you know, a bit of this and that. Mostly fiction.”
“Hmm…” The cyan pegasus looked him over, a hint of incredulity seeping through her expression. “Guess that doesn’t bank you a lot of bits, huh?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, unable to suppress the quiver in his voice. “I, uh… Well, no. Not really.”
“Yeah, I feel ya. I’m writing a novel too. It’s about this awesome pegasus who’s the best flier ever and becomes the captain of the Wonderbolts!”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, unable to suppress the quiver in his voice. “Oh… Sounds like… Best seller material.”
“Yeah, I know. Came up with it myself.”
“Yeah, Dashie! You two should write a story together! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
T.P. started to raise a hoof in protest, but held his tongue. He had to be nice; he had to make friends. He summoned a twisted grin and nodded. “That sounds like a lot of… Fun.”
“I dunno. You don’t write sappy stuff, do you? Mush is boring enough to read, but there’s no way I’m gonna sit around and write it. If we‘re gonna write something, its gotta be action packed.”
“Um. Well, I--”
“Pinkie, dear, can you come here for a moment!” T.P. was interrupted by Mrs. Cake’s beckon. Even a full floor above, her voice carried a tenderness that reminded the young stallion of his foalhood.
“Coming! You guys stay here. I’ll be right back. I just know you’ll be best friends in no time!” The pink, party pony squeed to herself and trotted away, to T.P.’s chagrin. What was he supposed to do? Make small talk? He wasn’t even good at big talk, so idle conversation would be like walking barehoof though a field of knives.
He shot a sideways grin to the cyan Pegasus. She raised an eyebrow in response, causing him turn away and lock his eyes onto his desk. This sucked. He poked a wary hoof at the crusted wax coating the top of his moldy-pile-of-desk. Maybe she would go away if he stayed silent long enough, then she could come back when their pink friend was done. That would be acceptable, right?
“So...” He snapped his attention to her, surprised to see her plop down beside him as she continued. “What’re you working on?”
He looked down to the parchment he’d been scribbling on earlier that day with a hint of disdain. “Oh… Just a story for my column in the Ponyville Courier.” He turned to her and his expression lifted in a tinge of hope. “Have you, ya’know, read some of it?”
Her face twisted in a way he couldn’t place, somewhere between realization and repugnance, but she said nothing of it and shook her head.
He sighed. “Of course not. Well, I’m having trouble coming up with something fresh and exciting.”
“Ha!” Her outburst caught him off guard. He looked at her with an arched eyebrow. She continued, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry. It’s just funny you’d say that. You know what Haygel said: To be original, you gotta take what’s been done before and shake out what it hides from itself.” She shrugged. “So, ya’know, you gotta do what’s been done before in a new way.”
He stared at her wide eyed for a moment, then shook himself out of stupor. “Oh. Er, yeah. He does say that. I didn’t know you read philosophy.”
“I don’t. Twi kept going on about it when I asked her for help with my novel. Thought it was kinda obvious though.”
He tapped a hoof against his muzzle. “Well that’s because your interpretation is off. What it hides from itself isn’t internal to the story, but to the writer.”
“Huh?”
“Well, let me put it this way: You know the story of Daring Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone?”
“Heck yeah!” The cyan pegasus pumped her hoof in the air. “First book in my favorite series! Daring liberates the Sapphire Stone from the temple before it can fall into the claws of the evil Ahuizotl, who justs wants it so he can use its power to crush the world under his iron claw!”
T.P. tapped his nose with a hoof. “Right. But what if I told you that story has been done a million times before?”
“Psh. Duh. Everyone knows about the hero’s journey.”
“Yeah, but not just that. What if I told you that, in other tellings, Daring was the villain?”
“What? Who would think that an evil dictator was anything but a villain?”
“You remember the story of the Crystal Emperor?”
“Yeah. Everypony knows that old mare’s tale. Kinda boring if you ask me.”
“No argument there. But do you remember what Prince Somber Night’s role was?”
“Yeah. He wanted to take the Crystal Heart and use its power to topple The Empire.”
“Right. The Empire ruled countless subjects across the continent using its military supremacy, but, in the story at least, this meant order and harmony. The Prince’s father, and, subsequently, the Prince, were threats to harmony because they and their ’minions’, which is the term for subjects applied to villains, wanted to rule their own kingdom.”
“Wait a second!” She held her hoof up to stop him, “I think I see where you’re going, but you can’t really compare that to Daring Do. Prince Somber Night was a tyrant!”
“Any more so than the Crystal Emperor? It even says in the story that the Emperor’s rule was based on conquests and subjugation in the name of harmony. But even if I grant you that, it’s really beside the point. The story details the Emperor’s attempts to stop Somber Night from stealing the Heart, which is the key to his rule.”
“So?”
“Like I said, the roles were reversed. If we use your terms, Somber Night wanted to liberate the Crystal Heart before The Emperor could use its power to crush the world under his iron hoof.”
Rainbow’s eyes widened. “Oh! So you’re saying that it’s the same story, but what makes it different is that Daring Do is the good guy. So Haygel means to do what’s been done before, but switch things up a bit?”
T.P shook his head again. “Not quite. It’s not that the author of the Daring Do series just reversed the roles; the roles themselves, what is considered virtuous and good, have changed in the millennium since that story was first told. Haygel isn’t just talking about changing aspect of the story at whim, but about drawing out the moral life of the author’s time. The Do series is popular, and rightly so, not just because it’s a fun story, but also because it reflects the ethical life of our day.”
“What? You’re saying it was okay to oppress people back then?”
“You assume that such behavior was considered oppression. You were there when Princess Luna reintroduced herself to Ponyville, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, that was pretty awkward. It took her awhile to realize everypony was cowering in fear.”
“Only because, in her time, bowing was not merely a formality. In the ceremony, we have lost the significance of a lowered head.”
“Huh? And what was that?”
“If the ruler wanted your head, it was hers to take. To be a subject was no different than being property, like the land or the crops grown thereupon. Some of that is still reflected in our legal system…” He waved an arrant hoof. “But it’s anachronistic. Its meaning has fallen away...”
He dropped his hoof, and they sat in silence for some time, Rainbow with her brow dipped in contemplation and T.P. idly flaking dried wax from his desk. Soon he was consumed with the task, like a foal upon whatever can be teethed, for the habit had a security about it that he‘d missed but never known. It was only the grunt of his new companion that bade him to return to attention.
“Okay, then,” she began brash and resolute, “why don’t I help you write something like that. It can be of a pony who crusades against evil in the name of harmony, like in the old stories, but in the name of protecting her ponies from tyrants like Prince Somber Night and The Emperor.”
The young stallion shook his head and returned to scraping away the wax. The pegasus arched an eyebrow, then redoubled her pitch.
“Then how about one about a pony who is cursed and has to fight ancient magic. Ya’know, to free herself and uncover a plot to destroy harmony.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t sound all that interesting. Don’t you want to write something that’s not action and adventure?”
She groaned and he wings started to flay, but he continued picking at the wax without looking at her.
“Okay, then. What do you want to write about?”
He shrugged again and continued at his new habit. “Like I said, I don’t know, but I haven’t known what to write for a few days now…”
She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “But you won’t even consider the ideas I’m giving you? Seems like you should be getting desperate; don’t you have a deadline?”
“Yes, but that’s why I can’t sleep; and I won‘t be able to sleep until it‘s met, but I can‘t just give them anything, and your ideas aren‘t very good.”
The cyan pegasus glowered and stood with more haste than he thought she would, so he turned to behold the anger growing in her eyes and winced slightly when she spoke through gritted teeth.
“You know, I was trying to be nice to you for Pinkie Pie, but I get now why you don’t have any friends. You’re a jackass.”
He felt a lurch of heat in his chest and his face, too, contorted in anger and he stood to meet her gaze. “And you’re an overconfident jock at best! Go back to your flying lessons and leave the mental world to those with brains.”
A puff of air flared from the pegasus’ nostrils and she met his gaze with a fire cored from the sun, and her wings flared out and made her look more intimidating than she had been before. “You’ve got brains? I guess you’re real bright bumming it in a basement, playing at being a writer even though you can’t even come up with something simple to write about.”
“At least I take care enough to think through what I write about, and the ponies who read my columns appreciate that, but I know you’ll have much greater fanfare with that brilliant idea for a novel you had. I used to have a brain-dead cat whose hairballs were more creative than you!”
She stomped her hoof. “Fuck you! Yeah, you’re such a fucking big-shot writer. That’s why the only reason you got that column is because the fucking Cakes pulled strings with the Courier to get you hired!”
A sharp spike drove through the pressure that had been building inside the stallion and his jaw opened, but he lost the ability to close it. For a moment, the pegasus too seemed stunned by the words she’d spoken, but her anger revived and she gnashed her teeth and grunted, then turned and stormed away and up the stairs, trampling metal and cookware and creating a clamor on her way out.
T.P. gawked, only half aware that she had left but still staring at the spot where she had stood. It was only the sound of a slam from above and a mix of curses and pleas that returned him to reality. The harsh stomping of angry hooves were like hammers on a rooftop and the pleas grew more frantic, following in their wake, then both seemed to grow dim and disappear, enunciated by the sound of a door slamming.
He fell back on his haunches and fixed a vacant stare on the stone floor. If time passed, he was removed from it, and if it didn’t, he would be unmolested. A scratch in his throat turned into a burn and his vision blurred with a salty mist which desperately wanted to escape his eyes. He tried to press both back, but the more he strained, the more they fought. Soon it was too much and his tears burst forth and matted his fur and gave him a chill in the unabated draft. He collapsed over and laid his head on his desk and sobbed in a hollow wail that echoed about and was reminiscent of the cry of an apparition.
He continued to spiral further into his despair, and his nose leaked and covered his muzzle with a thin layer of mucus, and his hooves shook as though affected by an earthquake. He shook his head what little he could and cursed to himself and toward the pegasus whose company he’d never asked for, and though the candle before him was growing dim and would soon be out and the darkness pricked him on all sides like the closing doors of an iron maiden, he ceased to care if it consumed him. What purpose would life serve to one whose purpose could be ripped away from them with the ease of a dragon against a sheet of gossamer.
So the shadows around him flittered and grew and closed in on him, and Prince Somber Night, also known as the Shadow King, bared down on him without resistance and, without fanfare, save the dry heave of a broken stallion, swallowed him whole when the candle was finally snuffed out.
An intense cold consumed him and the pricks against his fur became so many slashes and cuts, as though a million sabers were being brought against every inch of his flesh, and his cries intensified and became desperate as his breaths grew short, and the wounds upon his flesh seemed to creep into his mind. He began to thrash about and the moldy boards that were his desk offered little resistance and collapsed in his wake, and he collapsed with them and continued to convulse upon the ground, consumed by sorrow and anger and fear, and affected by an all consuming pain.
And he remained on the cold floor for an eternity that rivaled the stretch of reality and was, at times, allowed a respite in which he became numb and even his name seemed lost. But mostly he continued to writhe and cried for help, though he knew he could not be saved. And something inside his head seemed to pop and crackle and his heart felt ready to explode and, at times, he wished it would, so that his agony would be over. He was, in fact, so buffeted and every nerve in his body was so inflamed that he did not notice the delicate tapping of hooves until their owner stopped at his side and a warm cheek pressed to his own. The feeling chased away the agony in that part of his body and he strained to focus his eyes on the pony who would rescue him, but could only discern a vague figure.
He choked through his burning lungs and the saliva that had pooled in the back of his throat to cry out for salvation, but the attempt only earned him a spastic cough and a flare of pain in his chest which revived his anger, and he lashed his hooves out and struck the figure before him, sending it careening to the side. But his rage did not abate, and he was now frustrated that the figure had given him hope of reprieve and, instead of calling for assistance, he cursed it for not leaving him to die. In his periphery he saw it struggle to stand and a glint of pink threw him into a pit of dread, for his anger and what he had done.
The figure brought a hoof to its muzzle where he had struck and he saw its mouth move but could not hear it speak because his head was submerged in the River Styx and his ears were possessed of an echo as though affected by sounds through a body of water. His would-be-savior’s body drooped and he wanted to reach out and comfort it, but another wave of anxiety and a great weight pressed upon his chest and caused him to gasp and flail about. He felt as though he was saying something, and the figure seemed to pause as though listening to his voice, but he could not comprehend his own words save the errant “bitch” and “leave.”
Whatever nonsense he spewed while not in control of his faculties seemed audible enough to the pony because it trembled and ran off. And he wanted it to stay, and tried to regain control of himself to call after it, but his attempt to resist the darkness eating at his insides only brought rage, and his convulsions grew worse and, though he felt exhausted and as though more motion would drain his very life, his manic wails and the anxiety within him flared again and he assaulted the stone for another stretch of eternity.
After the limits of his mortality had seemed to pass him, and when his will to resist the sharp spines that assaulted him from without and within collapsed, a new sensation stirred within him, one of relief and release, and with it a voice.
“Tsk, tsk,” the disembodied speaker said; it possessed a lyrical quality laced with condescension, “once again you have failed to uphold your end of the bargain, Talltale; and once again your mind is my plaything. A pity.”
T.P. wheezed and his eyes lit up. He flicked his gaze around the cellar in search of the specter whose voice mocked him and claimed a familiarity which he did not recall but believed nonetheless. Only darkness greeted him, as though he’d been submerged in an inkwell. What anxiety had not dulled was refreshed and his breath quickened and shortened, and the increased pace made him feel lightheaded; and he would have welcomed unconsciousness, to escape his cabinet of perturbation. He cried out in his mind for release, for he was sure now that he was already dead and that his soul was floating in Tartarus. Instead, the voice seemed to be aware of his thoughts and responded to his silent pleas with a cold chuckle.
“You’re still very much alive; I would not let you renege on our agreement through death. That, in fact, was one of its terms. But you don‘t remember that and, at this rate, you never will.”
The young stallion choked on his breath and heat grew in his face. He twisted his body and flipped onto his side, and his ribs cracked when he smacked down, but if he felt pain, he was too numb to process it. He struggled against exhaustion to keep breathing and moving, but even such simple multitasking was a greater strain than a marathon. But what he wanted was not far; he reached a hoof out to his quill and his muscles seized and ached, but he knew it was his salvation.
“Oh? Now you’re intent on completing your task. It would seem a little late. You’ve spent all this time trying to avoid the darkness and to avoid me; you knew the consequences of your failure. A bargain was made, Talltale, and since your end was not kept you will enjoy absolute isolation until I grow bored with you.”
Out of the infinite abyss, a goat’s hoof slammed against the stone and atop his quill before he could touch it, and the implement snapped in half like a twig under a bolder. T.P. gasped and snapped his gaze up, to gangly and mismatched body of his tormentor. He scowled and gritted his teeth, now aware, newly aware, of what daemon had hounded him from the shadows. How could he have forgotten?
“Because you agreed to forget.”
Why would he abide such torment?
“Because you had a desire greater in value to you than any punishment.”
What was worth is current pain?
“The companionship of another.”
The young stallion took a sharp inhale, and the spike in his lungs made him immediately regret it.
“That’s correct. I brought her to you, or maybe you to her, and she, in turn, would have brought you others. But now you’re mine again. You cannot run from me anymore, Talltale. To think, you almost knew the magic of friendship. Now, instead, I‘ll show you the magic of madness.”
T.P. gritted his teeth and groaned. His anger and frustration peaked once more and his muscles tensed, and he wanted to shout an infinite number of curses at the discordant god and blame it for his suffering and condemn it to the corners Tartarus he had endured, and to cry out in a hatred that burned inside him like the unspent fury of every star that burned in the heavens!
But a memory flashed in his eyes. A pink mane and an honest smile, and a voice whose airy quality was of beauty unbound by angst and dishonesty, and whose presence he’d begun to… rely on at some point. And who he, in his carelessness, had struck, and who was in pain; and he realized that he, in that moment, was more worried about her, more angry about what he had done to her, than he was about his own discomfort. Yes, he had wished for that pony, hadn’t he? And whether he remembered that wish or not, he could not forgive himself for taking her, and all she had done and tried to do for him, for granted.
And he knew what he would do for her. And he realized that there was something more ephemeral about their relationship than whatever cruel power this creature of chaos wielded over him.
The young stallion raised a hoof and placed it on the ground evenly, then another, though his joints screamed. And he did the same with the other two and, through a flurry of needles against every nerve in his body, he began to stand.
“So what, then,” the chaotic being scoffed, “you mean to flee me and go to her? You know that is impossible.”
“N-no!” Talltale shot the monstrosity a defiant stare.
"Then just flee." The discordant god bent low, his face inches from T.P.'s. "That's proven so successful for you in the-- Oomph!"
Like the flicker of a fighter's limb, T.P. shot out a forehoof and wrapped it around Discord's neck, and held their faces together. The touch alone filled his body with every terror known to a soldier on the battlefield, criminal at the gallows and hiker under an avalanche; and his muscles seized against him, and every part of his body begged him to cease the contact. But he held tighter.
"Yeah, I've been running from you. Like an idiot. I'm the one who invited you here in the first place, thinking the invitation alone was enough." He gritted his teeth.
"But one does not just... pretend to accept you, do they? To embrace you," he tightened his grip, "is... to take every pain you can throw, not to just... cynically declare knowledge of you.
"So I'll suffer, and I'll writhe, and you can torment me all you want." The young stallion chocked back his anxiety and his voice became silky.
"But you won't stop me from writing. If you want a story, I'll give you one. And maybe, one day, I'll even be able to summon the right words... For her, too."
His hooves shook, his grip loosened and his legs gave out, and the young stallion fell, but managed to remain on his haunches.
"Ha ha!" The old god reared back in mirth and the darkness shook. "That's what I wanted to hear! Then if you want to be free, you know what to do!" He snapped and a slant-top desk appeared before T.P., along with a fresh quill, parchment and an ink well.
Talltale cast a weary gaze over the items, to Discord, then back to the items. And, without fanfare or protest, he wrapped his fetlock around the quill and got to work. And the darkness remained, and would, perhaps, always be there, but it could never be so stifling as to strip him of his purpose.
