Run, gallop, sprint, flee, run. Whatever you do, run. Escape the horror; towards the light; just an inch more; just half an inch more; just a–
He fell over.
He got up, because he had to, because he needed to run. Otherwise they would get him, they would get him and they would make him… They would make him, they would–no, he would not think about the room he would not think about the room he would not think about the room he would not he–
He fell over again, this time twisting an ankle. It really was hard to run while your hind legs were chained together like this, really hard indeed. Grimacing, the young stallion turned to his back, looking at the cursed things. The sight wasn’t pretty: the chains had chafed his coat raw around his ankles, and blood was oozing from the wounds. The left ankle bloomed with pain. He bit his tongue and growled in agony and frustration. In the weary confines of his mind, a thought ate away his sanity.
He wouldn’t make it.
But he had to.
Celestia needed to know.
With great effort, he got up to a sitting position. The ankle needed to be fixed, or at least be tried to. He’d be caught in an hour otherwise, which would mean… the room. The thought made the stallion’s already overworking heart miss a beat. Shaking, he closed his eyes, forcing calmness into the chaos under his brow. What followed would need his complete attention, otherwise… no, he couldn’t think of the otherwise. That would mean death. He breathed in, then out.
In the dark of the night, a horn was lit. A warm red glow, resembling the color of a strawberry, filled his damaged leg. The pain relieved. It didn’t disappear, but he felt like he could stand again and so he did. Only after getting on all fours did he dare to breathe. The spell had worked! The joy of the realization was twofold, for it also meant that his lifework had carried a fruit. Their magic can be replicated, mastered. With time and patience, we can perhaps even turn it against them. In time, the Witches will lose by their own weapons. The thought made him smile.
In the rare moment of relief, he looked around himself. It was dark, so very dark. Not even the moon was shining tonight, and the stars too had been covered by the blanket of clouds. It might start raining again at any moment. The autumn was old, and the canopy had long since fallen to cover the forest floor, turning the ground into a slippery carpet of molding leaves. The bare trees, resembling skeletons, had little protection to offer from the chilly weather. Already his fur was soaked and muddy, and the dirt was itching in his wounds. But I’m alive, and able to move again. Right? With some anxiety, he tried putting more weight on his damaged leg.
It held, but it was obvious that the ankle hadn’t healed properly. It’s still strained. The spell only dulled the pain. Did I got it wrong? With some effort, he found that he could walk, albeit he didn’t like the way how the bad ankle twisted every time he put weight on it. Still, it was something.
His ears pricked up: he had heard something. A distant voice, so faint that one might have mistaken it for the wind, but he wasn’t such a fool as to believe that. They were on his trail. He didn’t know how, but they were, he was sure of that. Instinctively, he made a hasty move forward, only to stumble again at his shackles. He cursed aloud, glaring at the merciless metal. The coughs and links were glowing from the weight of runes that had been inscribed to them. To do something like this to a fellow pony… It’s unforgivable. Celestia would punish the ponies who did this to him, he was sure of that. Supposing that he could make it that far.
The wind blew again, carrying noises other than the rustling of leaves. He limped forward as fast as he could, the chains tingling quietly with every step. Must keep moving, must escape. Celestia must know, she must, everypony must. I’m their only hope, the hope of all Equestria. If I fail, the Witches will prevail. I must–
He fell. The steep cliff had been practically invisible in the darkness. He rolled down the craggy hill, his limbs scraping against the sharp rocks, one of which opened a nasty wound on his brow. He blacked out. When he could see again, or at least blink painfully at the impenetrable gloom, his brains felt two sizes too big for his skull. He touched his temple and felt something sticky there. It was finally then that he became aware of the heavy rain that was quickly filling the sinkhole he had fallen into. Already the water was up to his pelvis. He tried to stand up, but screamed instead: the ankle felt like it had ripped off completely.
Then he could sense it. A presence. He looked up. On the top of the small cliff from where he had just fallen, there was a pony; a pony clad in shadows. It was holding something with its horn.
It was a…
No.
Not that. Anything but that.
“NO!” he screamed in a high pitched, panicked voice. The pony on the cliff didn’t react in any way.
He bounced up again, only to wail in agony and fall on his side with a splash. He tried to crawl up, but the pit had slippery walls that kept on throwing him back to the bottom. The more frantic his attempts grew the deeper he seemed to sink, until finally he managed to pull himself up from the hole, although the effort made him cry from pain, the tears falling on his mud-stained face. Sweating, panting, covered in mud and blood, he turned to his back to gaze upon the figure of the pony on the cliff. It had disappeared. He looked around in stiffening terror, but the rain and the darkness were blinding. How long has it followed me? Celestia help me…
As his heart gradually climbed down from his throat, he looked at his ankle again. Not only did it feel like tearing off, it actually looked like it, too. In the faint glow of the chains, he saw that the blood from the chafing wounds had thoroughly mixed in with the muddy water. The itching was unbearable, only matched by the flaming pain. For a moment, he wanted nothing but to give up, curl up and die, to let it all end in the eternal night. Instead, he prayed. Celestia, for your eternal love, wisdom, and kindness, help me. Help your servant. Help a soul that seeks your light, your magnificent light. Help me…
The rain gave him no answer. Something else did. With growing certainty he became aware of the light that shined in the blackness. For a mad instant he thought it was the sign of his pursuers catching up with him. But the light wasn’t moving. In the darkness it was hard to say, but the faint glow might have been a couple hundred meters away from him, just being there, staying still. There was no explanation, save... A house?
A house. It had to be. For the love of Celestia, let it be a house, just for once, let it be a house… With ponies inside, yes, some friendly, normal ponies, a farmer with his family, eager to help a fellow pony in peril. Just let it be a house. Gathering the last of his fleeting strength, he turned to sit and concentrated on casting another dulling spell on his ankle. There was no way he could make it to the light without it. His horn’s glow joined in with that of the shackles, the vermilion mixing in with the purple. The agony subsided once more, but he could sense it looming just a breath away, awaiting it’s chance to sink its teeth into him. Nonetheless, he got up and limped towards the light. He didn’t look behind himself until he was there.
It ended up being a house, indeed. Or at least it had been. Years ago. Decades. Even in the wet dark, he could see the paintless walls, the broken windows, the nearly collapsed roof and all the other characteristics of a building deserted in ages past. But… Where had the light come from, then? And where is it now? Now that he thought about it, it had just disappeared at some point when he had been making his way towards it. But how could I have missed something like that?
The house’s front door opened with a creak.
He couldn’t help but stare at the utter darkness that flowed from within the opened doorway. He stared, for even the thought of moving a muscle had evaporated at the instant the door had opened, seemingly all by itself. So he stared, and waited, until…Nothing happened. This gave him an opening to breathe again. He even dared to back a few steps away from the house that, in some very weird fashion, seemed to be luring him to enter in. Oh no, not in a million years. He turned.
And saw the pony with the–
No.
No.
Not that.
NOT. THAT.
He made a sound that almost wasn’t a scream and could’ve passed as a laugh. He backed away; backed until his hind legs hit the porch of the house, to which he rose, all the while keeping his eyes fixed to the figure covered in shadows. It was wearing a doctor’s white, long coat.
Despite the pain, despite the irons digging into his flesh, he leaped through the open door which he then slammed shut behind him. He scanned the room with eyes wild with fear, saw a table and threw it against the door. The rotten furniture simply exploded at the impact. An old bookshelf got a similar treatment from his magic, although this time he restrained himself a bit more and set the object more carefully against the front door. In a moment he had ripped some planks free from the walls and used them to cover the few windows the room had, after which he stopped to draw some air to his lungs again. That would hold the thing for a while, he thought. Until he remembered what the dark pony had been wielding in the first place.
Perhaps the house had a cellar he could hide into? Or better, a back door to escape from? He did not content himself with just guessing at such things, but began searching the house room by room. He wouldn’t break, not at a time like this. Never. He would be the hero of this land, of these ponies; they would all now that. They would all know that. All he needed to do was escape.
The problem was he couldn’t. There was no second floor, no cellar, not even a back door. Just three rooms, a fireplace and some windows which he avoided as best as he could. There really was nothing he could use, nothing of help. I could try to squirm through the chimney and up to the roof…
The fact that he was seriously considering that option made him burst into a hysterical laugh that travelled all the way through the broken windows and into the darkness beyond. He laughed at the hopeless absurdity of his situation, at the mindless goals of his fantasies, at the life in general. He laughed until it hurt. For a moment, he even laughed at the shadowy figure of the pony that stood in front of him, holding a–
“NO!” he screamed and backed against the wall behind him. The stranger just stood there, face covered in shadows like always, the blade on his side glimmering unnaturally in the dim.
“You aren’t real!” he shrieked from the bottom of his lungs, saliva flying from his mouth.
The stranger still didn’t move a muscle.
His horn glowed red when he ripped a plank with nails still clinging on it from a wall. Without thínking, he swung the pony in front of him with it, his magic illuminating the room with carmine red. The plank hit hard on the right temple of the figure, with one of the nails digging deep into its skull. The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable. The pony collapsed on the dirty floor. A pool of blood grew steadily around her.
In the red room, he mumbled to himself. “I… I didn't mean to; she was… I… she, she shouldn’t have…”
He could see the face of the stranger now. It was a young mare with a green mane and eyes yellow as corn. The look on her bloodstained face was something between confusion and amusement.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he said calmly and quietly, to nopony in particular.
Somepony touched him from behind.
It was the pony with face covered in shadows. It was holding a saw.
***
With the descent of darkness came the mists of dream, enveloping the pony in their embrace.
There was a room. A room of white.
And... Figures...
They were white too; white so pure that it hurt to look at them.
There was a blade.
A saw.
No. Not that, anything but that, please, let it be anything but that.
It approached him still. No matter how he begged, how he cursed, how he threatened, the saw neared him as inevitably as death itself.
Pain cut through him like a knife, pulsing through his veins, his flesh, his soul. It was unspeakable. It was sawing through him.
”He's awake, he's awake!” shouted an unknown voice. It sounded real, but the veil between dream and reality had long since faded from his consciousness, leaving only a haze behind. He couldn't tell if he was awake or not.
”For Celestia's sake, keep him asleep!” another voice said, as unfamiliar as the last one. It was recognizably a male’s and sounded nervous.
”I gave him the maximum dose! There’s no way he could–”
He opened his eyes. He tried to rise up, but couldn't, tried to move his head, but didn't succeed any better in that. His eyes moved like lightning in their sockets, wide with fear. What is going on?
From the chaotic picture of white coated ponies, bright lights and walls of chalky white, he realized that he was in the room. He was in the room.
In the...
He...
They...
NO.
He tried to scream, but his mouth had been muzzled. Some part of him recognized a pattern of movement that stood out from the rest of the motions in the room. Among the seemingly mindlessly running ponies, he noticed this very mechanical and steady motion that was taking place very near his head – he could just about see the blade moving backwards and forwards above him. It reminded him of...
The saw.
The straps all around him almost failed to restrain his mindless struggling on the bed that he had been tied to.
”Keep him down, keep down!”
Hooves grabbed him, strong limbs of unseen enemies. He could feel them on his legs, on his torso, even on his neck. The panic ignited into blind rage. His horn glowed red again.
”Look out: he’s trying to– ”
A flash of vermilion illuminated the white room, but before it could reach the walls, it was met by blue light that cut through the paranoid red, fencing it, fighting it back. He could feel his spell fading, could feel some force extinguishing it like a waterfall extinguishes a candle flame. With a final push, he channeled all his strength into his horn to combat it.
It stopped. It all stopped. The room returned white again, all the movement ended. Hooves let go of him, the mechanical motion receded. Only the pain lingered, a paralysing pulse that seemed to radiate from the top of his head. What happened?
”Good work, Doctor, good work,” said a female voice from beyond his vision.
Suddenly, all around him, voices began to speak, congratulating each other and this ”Doctor” on work well done. He just waited, for he could do nothing else. He felt empty; like nothing really mattered anymore. Like something had changed, but he couldn't say what that was, exactly. Not until he saw the unicorn’s horn that was hoofed over above him. His horn that was hoofed over above him.
His. Horn.
They had cut off his horn.
”The patient needs rest. Put him to sleep, now.”
They had cut off his–
***
To: Princess Celestia of Equestria, on the Eve of the Seventh Turning, Year 620
From: J. Pigeon, Head Doctor of the Everdream Hospital
Subject: Second Report of the Patient Hollow Bark
My Princess Celestia,
it is my sullen duty to inform you of the latest developments that have taken place on the case of the patient you sent us just over a month ago, the patient in question being none other than your ex-protege, scholar Hollow Bark. I shall go straight to the point of why I have written this report: we have successfully carried an operation called cornusection to the aforementioned patient today. That is to say, we have amputated his horn.
We did this because of the danger he presented to this facility and to its staff. Indeed, the threat I speak of was not just a fickle of our imagination but the exact opposite of that. And so I must inform Your Highness of another sorrowful state of affairs: one of our nurses, named Cotton Ball, has died.
What follows is my report of the tragic events that lead to this. I shall start from the day when I wrote my first report, on the very day that Hollow Bark came to us in the Everdream Hospital.
Like I in my first report correctly anticipated, he proved to be a difficult patient to treat from the start. The deep paranoia that was evident in his behaviour didn't fit at all to the usual day cycle of our patients, most of whom couldn't stand his presence. He didn't immediately show any serious aggressive behaviour, yet the fanatic glee of his nature clearly hinted of serious mental problems. The superficial embodiment of his trauma were these Witches about whom he constantly preached to anypony showing even minor interest to him, but in the several therapy session I had with him, I couldn't determine the original cause of this perversion.
However, I have already spoke of Hollow Bark’s psychological evaluation in my first report and so far I don’t have much factual content to add on that department. Looking backward, we should have tried to understand him better before giving more freedom to him, although the reason we did so in the first place was mainly because you had instructed us to do so.
After the initial shock brought about by the change of environment had apparently faded, and when Hollow Bark began showcasing a more calm and controlled behaviour, we let him go to walks into the surrounding woods of the hospital, although with escort and chained from the hind legs. Two unicorn nurses were constantly with him whenever he was allowed to step outside the facility. The walks seemed to have a positive effect on him, for he became calmer, even to the point where he could spent hours just staring a blank wall in his room. I personally regarded the change as a turn for the better.
I could not have been more wrong about that.
On the twenty-seventh day since his arrival, Hollow Bark went to his daily walk with only one nurse with him. The other nurse had another patient that needed attention, so they agreed with themselves to separate that time, reasoning that Hollow Bark had shown remarkable progress in the last few weeks. I have already discussed the severity of the other nurse’s misjudgement with him, although I have not yet decided about the course of action that I should take. Perhaps Your Highness could advise me on this matter?
But, to return to my report, it must be stated that none of us could have guessed what Hollow Bark would do, given even a narrow chance to escape. There is no easy way to break this, so I’m just going to say it: Hollow Bark killed nurse Cotton Ball. He did this with his magic and, apparently, with a jagged rock. If your highness wishes to know more about the details of her demise, I have included an autopsy report along with this letter.
Hollow Bark and Cotton Ball had left to the walk at midday, but it was only in the evening that we found the body of Ball. Bark had showcased a twisted sense of rational thinking and pushed her into a river, which made it very difficult for us to narrow down the search. Indeed, the chance that he might have escaped from us for good was a very real one.
This, for the fortune of all, ended up not to be the case.
We found Hollow Bark during the next morning in an abandoned cabin, some ten miles from the hospital. The enchanted shackles were the key to locating him – a little precaution from my part. They were unbreakable by magic and emanated a magical field that guided us to him, right when we got close enough. The fact that he got as far as he did was an amazing achievement from him – to advance that far in a nightly forest, with hind legs chained together. The fact speaks volumes of the severity his mental condition.
The lack of resistance from Bark’s part, upon being captured, was another lucky turn of events. We found him unconscious, you see. I was there at the frontline of the searching operation and was prepared for a desperate last stand, yet there he was, sleeping on the cabin floor.
The reason why he would have just spent a night in some deserted cabin is beyond me. It could be that his strength had simply faded, for he was in pretty rough shape when we found him. Or perhaps his conscience could not handle the burden of sins anymore, at which point he just wanted to be caught. The reasons behind his actions are quite meaningless to know now, however, for like I stated at the beginning of this report, Hollow Bark is now a hornless unicorn. His magical capability, formidable as it was, is nought but a memory now.
To be frank, I had discussed the option of cornusection with some of my colleagues the first day that he was brought to us. We decided to refrain from this because we knew that Your Highness deeply disapproves of the procedure in principle, despite the positive reactions it has proven to inspire in some of the patients. I actually discussed the technical sides of the operation with Hollow Bark himself on the day that he came to us. I even showed him our operation room and some of the surgical instruments. I dare say, he seemed quite impressed by my theory regarding the emancipatory aspects of the operation.
Hollow Bark himself is now a living proof of this. I would be surprised if he could harm even a fly anymore, considering the catatonic state he has collapsed into. We keep guard on him day and night though, for I am no such a fool as to fall for the same trick twice. Still, the fact that we even have to feed him now hints that perhaps his state is authentic this time. My firm belief, which I have stated for Your Highness before, is that radically disturbed patients need more radical treatment for real progress to be archived. The cornusection is a prime example of this theory applied to practice. I will write more about Hollow Bark’s state in a month, or earlier if new developments occur.
I will end my report with the request that, if Your Highness has found anything to note or criticize in my actions, you will inform me about this at once. Like always, I am nothing but willing to learn from my mistakes.
Yours Truly,
J. Pigeon, Head Doctor of the Everdream Hospital
P.S. Before I could seal the letter, I was informed that Hollow Bark has presented a request of sorts. He appears to still be lost in his inner fantasies, for he begs that Your Highness would be warned of a nationwide conspiracy machinated by the Witches. He even asked that you would come to visit him one of these days.
The fact that the patient, even after the cornusection, still seems to show no increased clarity of mind, should not be regarded as a straightforward argument against the procedure in general. The effects of the operation need time to sink in, after all, time and perhaps some stronger sedative medicines.
Perhaps the fact that Hollow Bark came under my care has some positive aspects to it, after all. I am nothing if deeply excited by this opportunity to finally showcase the beneficial effects of cornusection and its aftercare to an otherwise unsalvageable patient.
By my honour as a doctor, I will cure this pony lost beyond Your Divine Grace.
