Horror vacui can be an awful thing when experienced, not in a painting, but in reality.
In a space devoid of limits, and between infinite slices of time, a creature dwells, writing a book. The task is somewhat complicated by the evident urge of the letters to run off the page right as they are born from the claw that created them. Discord, the Lord of Chaos, watches absentmindedly as the future of his literary career escapes him, running away with tiny legs made of ink. Nonetheless, the avian claw doesn’t stop. It cannot, for a void would follow.
One by one, the black letters, still damp, fall off the pages, flailing their little legs in the air as they disappear into the nothingness below. Some manage to cling onto the tail of the draconequus that swings idly below him, but most simply evaporate as they fall far enough from their maker. He pays the little freeriders no more mind than he might to a flea; it’s the writing that drinks up all his time, all his infinite time.
Finally, the eternal author stops his work. No more vowels and consonants flee him, not a drop of ink stirs under his mismatched gaze. And not a single word stains the pages of his diary; the diary of an immortal being remains as empty as his grave. He closes the book with an abrupt thump, hurling it into the blackness as far as he can. The book slides across the void like a dream, unhindered by novelties like friction or gravity. Discord watches it disappear into a horizon that doesn’t exist.
He sighs, although the gesture isn’t quite the same with no air around. Nonetheless, the boredom that emanates from his sigh is almost physical, almost real enough to have a discussion with. It’s by lucky chance that Discord doesn’t fall into the trap presented to him by his own subconscious; a conversation with one’s own boredom, at least in the case of an undying being, wouldn’t be a pretty sight.
Another book, similar to the one that flew away, appears in front of the draconequus, opening itself like a lotus. With a ponderous motion, the clawed hand extends towards the object, reaches for the cream white pages that are as empty as his reality. The talon stops inches away from the page, and suddenly, a hesitant look disturbs the mismatched peace of Discord’s face. If time was a thing, a few minutes might go by on the precipice of anticipation.
“What if…” mutters the Lord of Chaos to himself. The book disappears with a flick of a claw, and with one smooth motion, he begins to write…not on paper, but on the void itself. And the fang scribbles:
It was a dark and stormy night.
Before him, around him, the vacuum stirs, cracks, and melts down. Colours emerge from where there once was nothing, forms and movement begin their dance in the midst of a space deprived of directions. A cloud is born, a dark haze oozing sinister shades. Thunder cracks across the newborn sky, splitting the umbras and painting them with light brighter than the sun. A storm rises from the depths where even dreams fear to tread.
Discord watches in awe as the primal play unfolds before him, just for him, just by him. He claps his hands with vigour, and fresh bolts of lightning strike with every clap, each one more potent that the last.
“Brilliant! But not enough so… how about…” The claw lowers again, and writes:
In a space devoid of limits, and between infinite slices of time, a creature dwells, writing a book.
A déjà vu is a mild description for what follows; it’s as if a Klein bottle suddenly became conscious of itself, as if consciousness itself became conscious. Trapped in trance, Discord stares at the sight so familiar to him, a scene that ends in the beginning of another identical one. The speed of transition between the acts accelerates after every cycle; soon the separate processes blend together, interlance, and intensify. Soon, the difference between a mirror and an eyes vanishes as mirage after mirage slips into the limbo of eternal recurrence of the same.
“No,” says the draconequus, just on the edge of another simulacrum. A thousand voices echo after him, before him, repeating his every move. And then they shatter like glass. He wipes a trickle of sweat off his brow before extending his claw again. The talon trembles in the air, suspended in indetermination. Then, a flicker travels across his eyes. The claw dances in the air.
“Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria…”
Few things can be said to be able to impress a creature whose imagination transcends universes, but if such a thing was to exist…it would pale in comparison to the sight that enthralls Discord now. The window in front of him extends in astounding speed, repels the black void and imprints grass, clouds and mountains in the place of nothingness. But it’s not the bare views, astonishing as they are, that imprison his attention, but the story behind them.
The story that sucks in the author.
***
Numbness that burns like a flame incinerates his face, his hands that rise in a vain attempt to protect his body from the rainbow ray of justice. A scream stifles in Discord’s throat as it turns into stone. His vision blurs and splits as his right eye becomes grey granite. Even the feeling of cold evaporates as his body, cell by cell, petrifies both from sublime terror and magic more potent he has ever faced. Not again, he pleads as the light of day leaves his left eye. Not again.
Around the gruesome statue wearing a mask of plain fright and pain, six ponies look at each other, their smiles reflected from each other’s faces. In the void, Discord looks upon them, his expression wracked with rage that bends reality. They cast me out…from my own story…again. His claw scrapes the diaphanous layer of vibrating magic, a round window two meters in diameter, that now serves as his only access into the world beyond. He beats, scratches, and curses at the barrier, but it doesn’t yield before his fury, doesn't care about his hate and craving for revenge. How can it be? How can they do this to me? The invisible wall treats his tacit questions like it treats his other assaults; with indifference. How can the toys…reject the Toysmith?
“That doesn’t make any sense.” His mismatched eyes go wide as he hears his own words. “Oh, great, now I’m talking like one of my characters…” He slumps into a divan that appears from the black void, spreading his snake-like body over it like a carpet. “I never should have given them wings and horns. It’s unnatural. Nothing good can come out of that.”
He stares at the world denied from him by his own creations. Like a child looking at the toy shop window, he glares at the beauty of the forbidden fable. With a ponderous move, he extends his claw towards it, aiming just slightly left of the opening. His limb remains immobile in the air, waiting for his order that would extinguish the picture just like the ponies inside it just extinguished him. For the second time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… and you die. The claw doesn’t move.
After a minute of standing still, it falls.
Perhaps the beauty of it…is that I can never have it. He ponders that for a while. “Or perhaps I can afford to give them a third chance,” he says aloud. “It’s not like they knew what they were doing.”
It’s not like they knew.
***
In her library, Princess Twilight Sparkle reads a short manuscript, her eyes travelling from line to line at a steady rhythm. As she gets to the end, she raises an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to make of this?” she asks carefully, looking above her.
Discord, the Lord of Chaos, smiles an intricate smile at the lavender alicorn. “What do you think you’re supposed to be making about it?” he asks, swinging his tail as he lays on top of a bookshelf.
Twilight closes the manuscript, and stands up from the carpet. “That’s always the question with you, isn’t it? The plot behind the plot, the trick hidden in a trick?” She smirks at the draconequus, and turns her back on him. “Therefore, the correct answer to your question is: Nothing.”
Discord blinks, and flies idly over the alicorn. “At least tell me if you liked it!”
Twilight stops, and rolls her eyes. “Well, it was very innovative, I can give you that. Even on your scale.” She passes him by, and puts the manuscript neatly into a bookshelf, where it immediately disappears among other books and literary pieces like a fish into the sea. “I’m kind of curious; where did you get the idea that you’re the Creator of all Equestria?” she asks with a smirk, turning back to Discord.
He shrugs his thin shoulders, looking oblivious. “Can you tell where you get all your ideas?”
Twilight blinks a few times, opens her mouth slightly, but says nothing. “Never mind,” she manages. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, thank you for the gift; it was very…nice of you.” Her expression turns faraway for a second. “Can I include it into the library’s public collection? We don’t have that many novels as is. Who knows; somepony might want to read it while waiting for the next Daring Do adventure to come out.”
Discord looks at her from under his eyebrows, his head tilted. “And why would you think that, Twilight?”
The alicorn laughs shortly, averting his gaze. “Hah, uhm… Well, it does tell something about you, doesn’t it? And I bet there are many ponies out there who’d like to know more about you.” She gives him a faint smile. “If there’s one thing to be said about you, it’s that you attract interest.”
He gives her a long, blank look. “You think I’m…interesting?” he asks.
“Uh, not me, not as such, I was just speaking hypothetically!” the alicorn says hurriedly. “Not that I absolutely couldn’t think of you as interesting, but… You know what I’m trying to say.” She smiles at him awkwardly.
His blank face lights up as his casual grin returns. “Not at all. And that’s the beauty of it all, I find.”
“What?”
“Oh did I say that last part aloud?” says the draconequus, flying towards the door. “Must be the story that talked in my stead again,” he continues as he melts through the solid wood like it was nothing to him.
Twilight, alone in the silent room, looks at the door, her eyes glinting as if a haze covered them. Then she blinks, and the strange moment is gone.
Behind her, on the bookshelf, a letter black as ink peeks over the pages of Discord’s manuscript.
