Mist. Shadows. Death. Drafts of biting, clammy air wrapped around anything solid and bent the colorless grasses to swaying. White light passed through tendrils of gray mist, casting shadow on plains lacking constant form. A mottled shape, a pinprick of color, lay lifeless by a river of steely blue which shone like ice.
An ebony raft drifted over the waters, nudged the bank at its steersman's encouragement. The creature, a thing of long arms and long toes with matted red fur reeking of sundry chemicals, placed his palm on the gunwale and flung himself onto the blanched landscape. A loose, yellow tweed suit hung on his gaunt frame. He removed the smudge of color from amongst the pale reeds quavering on the silent shore. The pony's body flopped into the back of the black craft. A push from the steersman sent his boat and cargo into the water. His pole entered the water and vaulted the craft forward.
Rhythm. Soundless rhythm coaxed his vessel along the river of mist, of dark, of light, of life. Death.
A metallic tang drifted over the currents of wind. The motion of the boat soothed as morphine soothes the ache of mending bones and migraines. The beat of a heart, the susurration of blood, the little mechanisms that divide our world from the void, were here only an intrusion into something pure, clean, painless.
The dappled interloper awoke. Her cheeks felt wet. Had she been crying? Rough wood ruffled her fur. A perfect silence stretched to eternity. Her voice was swallowed by a stretch of it shellacked thickly. The destruction of a pristine object reverberates through more than one world. Her heart clenched for a moment; only one thought, one question, found its way to her lips.
"Am I dead?"
The steersman exhaled an ethereal hiss. His sightless, sickly eyes darted left under a straw hat resting on his knotted brown mane. A slim, silvery tongue parted his lips. "No."
"Where are we?" Echoes and whispers followed in voices not her own.
"Nowhere." The steersman's rod pushed the vessel farther along. Something caught in the pony's throat, a question she did not wish answered. "Who are you?" he ventured. At this, the pony curled up and whimpered as if struck with a stone.
"I don't know." Her tail flicked, unsettled by the revelation.
"I am Scorpan." He slowed their propulsion. Scorpan the Steersman turned his head to face the Pony Which Was Not. "I am."
"And I am what?"
"You are not."
"Naught?"
"No. You were Lemon Mirth. They will call you the Mare Do Well." Scorpan dredged his staff from the water in a flash of glimmering blue and silver droplets. The creature whirred in a rustle of fabric. The rod whistled through the air and contacted the pony's maw with a crisp crack.
The steersman knelt to place around the neck of the motionless pony something red, polished jasper. He grabbed the limp body and threw it into the water, where it floated down into the golden riverbed, illuminated by blue and green light. The necklace pulsed in time with her faint heartbeat.
Trees fell in the rampage. The beast billowed. She didn't ask for this. She didn't ask for anything. What cruel universe could fate somepony like this? The star-beast swiped at the forest. Leaves flew into the air. Her heart pumped faster. Her eyes watered. Her muscles ached for fleeing. It doesn't require memory to contain a drive for life or fear of death.
The peaceful evening was shattered again by the creature's scream. There was no way she could escape it. No way, no how, no power from Tartarus to Celestia and Luna's twin thrones that could keep her from falling into the sharp claws, the poised barb above her.
Scorpio was very nasty this time of year. Maybe it was the clime. The star-spangled monstrosity of reds, greens, and silvers made of the deep heaven's ethers slashed at the forest, enraged by a force beyond mere mortal's control. Its tail made for a sweep across the land, devastating a large portion of evergreen. Trees with shed leaves shattered under the force. Its mouth burned with the smell of sulfur. Brimstone glared in its eyes.
She was going to die. She was going to die without remembering any more of the world besides a single name. Lemon Mirth was afraid. Afraid beyond afraid. Fear flees from itself. She was going to die.
Tears edged at the top of her cheeks. Light on the horizon faded. The world was being snuffed out. All that remained was the cast of Scorpio's emerald glow. The sun had gone. Darkness. Mirth trembled, stiff from a sense of absolute futility. Her stomach knotted.
Her heart fluttered, steadied. Something grew from deep within her soul. Back right leg placed just so, back left leg placed just so, fore hooves placed just so far, she braced herself. Light emanated from the earth pony. Magic ripened the air. She stared up into the creature's face. A strange tingling sensation started at the tip of her hooves. It spread up her legs, as did black and violet fibers, crawling, weaving, forming.
Levels of magic, rivulets of aura, surges of power glowing white and indigo surged around her. Lashing cords of arcane power gashed the bark of trees, drawing sap to congeal on the surface. Veins of energy pierced the soil.
The Mare Do Well in effigy and mind, blood, bone, and sinew stood facing the creature of much greater size and power. Scorpio was not going to leave sated unless killing in satisfactory quantity and quality had been completed. Its tail swung down. The force was substantial, but Scorpio was a lethargic creature. Mare Do Well dodged its poisoned stinger with ease.
She looked down on the monster from an outcropping of rock. Scorpio turned its gaze skyward. The Mare Do Well leapt. The scorpion's blazing eyes traced her progress through the night sky. She fell from the night. The moon behind her, the eyes lit ablaze with rage kindled deep within the vaults of Tartarus before her, she felt power.
The two made contact. The world went white once more.
Red vigor flowed through her veins. On all sides lay nothing save a color she had never before seen. Each heartbeat was an explosion that shook the foundries of the universe. Somewhere, somewhere far, far away stared a familiar face into the depths of space, of time. Noise glistened on the veil.
Nervous system. Currents of chemical and electrical energy sped across her body. Something sent a shock of adrenaline into her blood, into her shaking limps and eyes peeled wide. A spark.
Pain seared the edges of her consciousness. Muscles contracted, dulled senses emerged from the fog. Screaming caught in her ears and tore into her mind. Light flooded into her eyes. Lemon Mirth woke to an amorphous world.
Murmurs. Figures loomed over her. The pony swiveled her head in bleary-eyed horror. The rough shapes of unicorns moved this way and that, sometimes melding with the world and each other. A shout rung clear. More light fell over her. Something heavy sat on her chest. The adrenaline took hold. Flailing.
Her body felt heavy. Nothing felt real or solid. Something primal drove her to fight. Then the darkness came. Quickly, without warning, there was nothing. Within the void once more.
She held out a hoof to the presence she felt lurking. She saw a stallion corporealize from the billowing black clouds. She reached farther. So close. The all-encompassing darkness lurched around her.
A heavy blast of air escaped from Lemon Mirth's nostrils. Her eyelids flicked open, then slipped down slightly. Her eyes roved around the room. Impotence clung to every inch of her flesh. A stately unicorn dozed in a chair beside her bed.
The unicorn's head bobbed. He lifted and shook it. Taking notice of the conscious Mirth, he slipped out of the chair and approached with a wispy smile on his lips.
"You had us worried. We were sure you weren't going to make it. You're lucky to be alive." The unicorn levitated a clipboard from the end of her bed. His eyes followed scratches and scribbles on the pages. Flip a page; check this off.
"Who—" Mirth's eyes closed in a grimace. Her chest clenched in pain.
"I'd take it easy if I were you. You’re in no condition to be exerting yourself." He put the clipboard back in its place. Confusion flashed over his features. "That's odd—"
"Who are you?" He ignored her while looking at the bag strung up beside her. He then turned his attention to the patient.
"Oh, me? Well, I'm an orderly here at the hospital. I must admit, you came to us in pretty bad shape, but we got you fixed up." He lifted his head and looked out a window framing a courtyard drenched in sunlight. "Everypony's curious about you. Who are you, exactly?"
"Lemon Mirth," she began. "My… I…" She pushed herself up into something of a sitting position. The jade heart dangled from her neck.
"Don't worry. The front desk will sort it all out." With that, he opened the door and sauntered out, closing it with a snap.
"Lemon Mirth," she repeated. She started; somepony else had said the name as well.
The light streaming from the window illuminated the form of a creature, looking very much like a large ape with a long snout.
"That's not possible, Gumbo."
The orderly stared with a bemused smirk playing at his lips. "I don't see why she would need to lie about that sort of thing…"
"It's simply not possible. Lemon Mirth committed suicide three months ago, here—" The receptionist sorted through the files and paperwork around her work area. "Read the police report yourself." She handed him a computer print-out.
Gumbo ruffled his mane in frustration. "Then who is in that cot?"
"I don't know, but you'd better find out."
Lemon Mirth's eyes followed the creature as he walked across the room and sat down on an empty, adjacent cot.
"I remember you." Her eyes drew down into a scowl.
"Do you? How quaint." His voice had a disconcerting quietness. "I'm here to tell you a few things. Chiefly about your dear luvy-wuvy." He fluttered his eyes in feigned bashfulness.
"My who-now?" she said weakly. The creature's eyes widened slightly.
"You really don't remember? How juicy, this will be interesting," he said with a languishing simper. A looking glass materialized in front of her. She saw herself crying over a cot not unlike her own, the occupant hidden under the covers. "It's delicious seeing you so confused. Divine, really."
"You're not real." Lemon Mirth closed her eyes. Something at the back of her mind grew hot. Her heart lurched.
"Not real? Oh, trust me, my darling, I am very real." He stood up. "And I suggest that you remove yourself from here post-haste." His claw pulled her up into the air by fur and throat. "For you see, not everything is as it appears to be."
Violet and black fire caught at the edge of her back legs. She looked into the creatures grey eyes, hooves pulling at the arm he held her by. What was so special about her? A flash of light caused stars to dance in her eyes.
The cityscape spread out before her. Buildings rose from the ground, monoliths of the modern age, silhouetted against the moon. Birds like black fire flapped across the rooftops. Nighttime took its course in a silent beauty that crept within her, widening a gap in her heart. The masked mare stiffened. Her wrapped hooves gripped the concrete of the ledge. Carriages carrying affluent officials trotted below. The clop of hooves was faintly audible here, high above.
The pale blue hemispheres covering Mare Do Well's eyes glinted in a stray moonbeam and rested on the ocean of glass wall flowing out before them. The skyscraper was a true heir to its name. The mare braced herself, the sound of fabric scraping against concrete. She leapt.
Glass shattered under hoof. Shards descended like edicts of heaven infused in the blade of a reaper. The Mare Do Well galloped along the wall of the skyscraper. Some hidden momentum dislodged her from the grip of reality's laws. Another leap, another step with faith. Faith in That Which Is Not. Two-hundred feet, one-hundred thirty, fifty, ten, her legs buckled when they found the brick road below.
Momentum. The Mare Do Well continued running. Acceleration. Somewhere in the maze of industrialization was lain her destination. Pursuit. She sensed something drawing near, gaining on her. The violet and black-clad mare spurned the ground with renewed fervor. Pegasus. Wing power: 28. No, that wasn't possible. This was no pegasus.
The brick street was not as desolate as she first believed it. Her head swung from left to right searching for a likely escape route before the curious stares of pedestrians became more than passive. She found one. Luna set the moon on the horizon. The perfectly, round, white plate dipped into it. Not much time left. It had spotted her. No time to hide.
Something small and automatic within her mind switched on. The Mare Do Well turned. There was no fear in her stance. There was never fear. The moon dipped further. Thirty feet, twenty, the creature pursuing her flew down the passage she had chosen to escape.
It wasn't something for the everyday's eyes. That was not a consolidation for missing it, but the mind has a curious way of glossing over details, the shocking in particular. The crimson creature slipped through the air. Putrid, red-violet trails slithered behind it. Claws, scales, featherless wings, and pupil-less eyes made up the majority of the beast, Draco Malumbra.
The dragon was hungry. It landed. The fatigue was apparent in the way it limped and slithered. Irony. Had the Mare Do Well been apt for emotion in that moment, she might have felt a flicker of morbid humor. The power this Malumbra pursued would unravel it. Half the moon had gone.
It attempted no grand finesse. DNA, brain, bone, nerve, instinct; it pounced. The masked mare countered with her own instinct, trained into muscles, the synapses. Tumble, kick out, the assailant smacked harmlessly against the ground. It braced for another lunge. No time. A kick placed just under the creature's jaw sent it careening into a brick wall, crippling a wing. It became a ruckus of flapping and spitting. No time. A stamp, break these vertebrae, the heart falls silent.
The Mare Do Well stared into its cloudy, lifeless, yellow eyes. She turned and ran, just as the body began to dissolve into the crisp, early morning air on streams of red, white, and black. The morning air and Centerville's streets cleared before the encroaching dawn.
That was inconsequential. The pony sighed. Six months had passed. She had made little headway into who she was, what she was. There is a feeling that is infinitely worse than any physical pain she could ever experience, she was used to that. The desperation of not knowing. A lack of identity's depression.
Three months ago she had woken up among the trees in a strange forest near a strange town. Three months ago she had been scared and alone, with only a name. It might not even have been her own.