She sits and watches me. I watch back. Her rose eyes look right at me, though I can see that I am not truly seen, not the focus of her gaze. She stares at the wall, at the candle and at the shadow it casts, a shadow that creeps up the cloud wall of her home and dances with the fire. In the darkness of the night the candle is the only light she can see; high above us the clouds conceal the moon’s glow, and below the unicorns sleep in their beds, few even thinking of illumination spells. There is only her, the candle, and me. I dance with the fire and the light it casts, and she watches the shadows moving, her wings spread and her back arched like a cat ready to pounce.
No.
Not a cat.
A mouse.
She doesn’t fear the dark; why should she? I’ve listened to her boasts, to her claims. Rainbow Dash, hero of Equestria, only pegasus to perform a sonic rainboom, the top candidate for the Wonderbolts, the element of loyalty. She doesn’t fear shadows or my dance, nor should she. My dance is a thing of beauty, a shadow cast by the candle, flowing light hitting a form to create movement. But she is tense, ready to bolt.
Because a shadow must be cast. A shadow does not simply appear and choose to entertain. A shadow does not move where there are none, does not defy all that is known as right in the world. I should not be there moving freely along the walls. In the darkness she suddenly moves, slow, calculated movements that allow her to stay away from me as she retrieves another candle. She lights it, and I feel the light upon me. Another shadow cast, another dancing figure.
She dives at me, and she lands face first in the clouds. I don’t stop, don’t even miss a step as she rises and starts swinging at where I stand in the room, at where my shadow ends. She hits empty air, and I begin to laugh at her silliness. It’s a light-hearted laugh, a childish laugh, the laugh a filly makes when she sees a clown throwing pies, or watches a bully slip on a banana peel. I laugh, and she tenses up again.
For a moment, I wonder if she can hear the music. The soft, steady drum beat, that steady thumping that drives me to move. Despite the flames controlling my form, I keep to that steady beat. As I giggle and dance, the beat picks up its pace, and she starts to back away, starts to creep away from the shadows, still staring at me. Her eyes are wide, bloodshot and unblinking, trying to understand. I keep moving, and energy begins to grow within my unseen form. My shadow begins to change, the blurred edges becoming crisp, my form becoming more whole.
The pounding beat picks up as she returns to her bed, pulls the cover over her head and stops looking at me. It doesn’t matter; I’m having so much fun, enjoying myself in the candlelight, dancing my dance as my form shows across the wall. An errant breeze removes my second shadow, and with a single candle lit I find myself across from her huddled form. She peaks out, and she sees my performance.
She watches me dance.
She sees what she cannot understand.
The pounding drum echos, beat faster and faster, and in the heat of the moment, I let go of my inhibitions and begin to sing. The notes are mostly those of a soprano, the words a long dead language, the pace set by her drumming beats. I sing and dance, my voice hitting notes as high as the moon, my words a haunting melody. Music begins to accompany my speech, screeching violins and low, deep booming brass instruments that come from nowhere. I can feel the pace increase to its climax, can feel my dance hit its peak, its stride.
And I change.
For a brief moment, I am no longer a shadow. For a brief moment, I am flesh and blood again, skin made of darkness stretched over long, spindly limbs, a single eye on the right side of my face, those markings of lavender that cross my form. I am alive, and I smile. I show her my joyful grin.
And then the drums miss a beat. Her hoof goes to her chest, her eyes wide open. Another missed beat. Another. I become shadows again, and I stop singing. The music stops, and I stare at her in silence as the beats become sporadic, unpredictable. She cries out, in pain, in suffering, and her cries hurt me.
And then it all stops. She clutches at her chest one final time before she collapses to the floor, eyes wide. I stare at her form as the door opens and her friends charge in, afraid of the screams that had echoed through the night air. One sets to work shocking her, pumping her chest, trying to start the drums once more. I cry, tears slipping down a face that does not exist, silent sobs unheard because there is no mouth from which to moan.
And then I hear it; a thumping, pounding beat. A drum, a hardy, powerful drum beat. I look around, listen for the noise, and I find it. She’s strong, an earth pony with a golden coat and an orange mane. In an instant I’ve crossed the candlelit floor and hidden myself in the shadows. She doesn’t notice, she won’t, not until I reappear. Dash begins to cough and sputter as life returns to her, and my heart aches just a bit less at the sight. She stares at the candle, ignoring her friends as they ask her what happened, why she had fallen.
She goes to the candle and blows it out. A beam of moonlight is cast through the window, I can’t stop myself, and I reappear. The drums beat faster for just a moment, and I bow before the ponies.
The drums skip a beat, and I vanish. My concert is over for the night.
