Stone Ponies

by Tweets

Rating: everyone
Tags: Pinkie Pie, Slice of Life, Twilight Sparkle, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Fluttershy
Length: 1787

Cockatrices. They turn their prey to stone and are mindless hunters of the Everfree with a preference for chicken. That's all ponykind knows.

The cockatrice. One of the higher in the food chain of the Everfree Forest, despite it's diminutive size. It is also one of the few blessed with any form of sapience, though this is unknown to ponykind, due in part to their contentment to live in ignorance, though largely due to the fact most ponies are deathly scared of the habitat in which the cockatrice resides, let alone the creature itself.

So - what do cockatrices think?

(The 'Sad' tag is not to say this is a tearjerker, it's just mildly sad. If it makes you cry, I apologise, that was not my intent.)

Published 2014-09-09 14:50:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-09-10 15:56:04 UTC

The Second

I acknowledge that sitting around as I have been is unlikely to be productive, it's not getting me any more food, nor is it keeping me hydrated or my territory protected from the common manticore intrusions, yet still as stone I sit on my perch and watch the world go by. I could give Discord a run for his money if he looked more like a chicken, but then again he did create my kind in his image.

***

I eventually resumed a mostly-normal life - nocockatrice can survive forever on morsels and stockpiled food scraps - and began hunting with gusto once more, but one thing changed about my routine. I began visiting the pony-statue, not on any schedule, but I would find myself sitting in front of it after a meal, at times until the sun set.

I always felt as if petrified beings were in some way conscious, despite not having any way to gain sustenance, and that they are stone, not a living being. It may just be that their eyes still hold their last felt emotion, frozen in whatever position it was as the stone overtook their face, but regardless, their faces would still hold at least some remnant of life. Due to this, I felt in a way obliged to accompany this pony, if the tables were turned and I were in her place and conscious, I imagine I would enjoy the company.

***

Days passed following my new routine until I spied the signs of another pony entering my territory. A white one with a branch stuck into her head, followed by an orange pony. While musing that these ponies must be terribly accident-prone to have so many of them manage to lodge branches into their skulls deep enough that they cannot be removed and are instead painted to match their fur, I also hoped they would not make the same mistake my pink guest would, as I had even developed an aversion to petrifying manticores, due to their signs of low-level intelligence. Petrifying more high-intelligence beings may have worse side-effects than loss of appetite, and I was unwilling to test my theory.

Thankfully, the pair only skirted the tamer parts of my territory, where I would neither have to take action nor have to worry about them disturbing the prey - the area had little in the way of plant life, and so my prey were uninterested in the area. After a time of looking around in the brush, they left, one appearing distraught, the other seemingly annoyed.

***

I awoke suddenly in the night, something crashing about in the underbrush some distance away. Skirting through the shadows to find the source, I noticed the orange pony was back, and much closer than last time. Much closer than I was comfortable with. I quickly resigned myself to repeating my task, setting up a similar ambush as previously, this time hiding in a ditch by the road, waiting for the critter I spooked to run and break some twigs in it's path. As expected, everything went swimmingly, and I was soon in the path of the orange pony, her shocked and wary eyes looking me over before crouching low. I had begun to think myself lucky that the pony would this time have the sense to flee, when she jumped towards me.

Taking a few steps back, I fixed the pony with my most withering and petrifying gaze as I help my ground. The pony tried to turn, presumably to lash out with her back feet, but as they were now attached to the floor and made of granite, the manouvre failed and she sprawled to the ground. Looking up, anger flared in her eyes as she defiantly stared back at me, daring me to continue as she struggled to free herself from her own hooves. Tears of stone began to cloud my eyes towards the end of the process, to the point where I could barely see as her face stopped moving, slowly due to the reduction in the force of my gaze and inability to see as clearly.

After all movement ceased, I wiped the pebbles from my eyes and settled down in the ditch I had hidden in previously to go back to sleep.

Author's Note

This was originally going to be a conclusion, but I have a little idea for that and needed this chapter to be able to make it work. I was originally going to have no more petrification, but this, while repetitive, better fit the narrative I have planned. I apologise if this is unsatisfying due to it's similarity, but I hope to make it up to you with the conclusion of this tale.

Chapter One

The forest shifted as a pony meandered through it, either unaware of the dangers within or brave enough to ignore them completely. Eyes closed and humming softly, the mare skipped over tree roots and darted around Poison Joke. The trees around the mare became less frightening as she passed, as if an aura of happiness and positivity surrounded her, affecting the very forest itself. Affecting my home.

Time passed as I stalked the fearless mare. Although she followed no path, she was making her way ever closer to my garden, my sanctuary. I didn't enjoy harming ponies, and after the time I petrified the lavender mare with the branch protruding from her head, the honey-coloured pony with one of the most serious cases of a misnomer if I had ever seen one - Fluttershy, if my memory serves me correctly - had given me a stern talking-to(and looking-at), explaining that petrification is rather uncomfortable for ponies and that I should only afflict them with it in self-defence. It was with a heavy heart that I decided if this meandering mare continued in the direction she was headed any farther I would be forced to take action.

It certainly was an unpleasant can of worms this cheerful mare had opened, and though I was loathe to end her cheer, I stoned my heart and found a concealed spot to ambush her.

***

A crunching of small sticks and scattered blades of petrified greenery alerted me to the pony's presence near my hiding spot. The hoofsteps ceased as it stopped to look at the bush I had hidden nearby; everything was proceeding as planned. In a short burst of motion I moved in front of the pony, and as it looked up at the disturbance, I knew what was to happen next. I was prepared for fear or panic, but what happened next caught me entirely off guard.

"Hi there, Mr Chicken-Snake!" the pony giggled before sttempting to prance towards me. The movement soon stopped as one of it's back hooves stayed grounded. The process had begun.

"Mr Chicken-Snake? What's wrong with my hoof?" The pony inquired, as if it expected me to speak. I looked it in the eyes, repeating to myself that this pony was equivalent to the prey I caught daily, and the look of cheer that had left it's face did not imply any higher intelligence - that I was not a murderer. That I was doing what I had to to protect my garden.

A look of understanding began to dawn on the pony as the grey signs of petrification spread up it's back legs and fluffed tail. As the stone reached it's rear, the pony began to giggle, seemingly finding the situation funny. I nearly lost my resolve right then and there. I wanted to run, to leave and allow the process to begin it's natural reversal, allow the life of the pony to fight off the petrification, as had happened the few times I had only partially afflicted a foe, or accidentally done too little to dispatch my prey, but as I contemplated doing this, the giggling began to fade away into silence, as the pony realised I was not to be swayed - or, perhaps due to the fact a diaphragm has trouble forcing air in and out of the lungs at the speed giggling requires when it's makeup is being changed from that of muscle and flesh to a more sedimentary nature.

The eyes of the pony narrowed, as if it could understand my intent, before widening again and almost popping out of it's skull. It opened it's mouth to say something, but as speech requires air to be passed through the vocal cords - air from the lungs which were now solid as my resolve - the words faded before they were even formed.

As the stone spread, a look of contemplation covered the pony's face, where it stayed. As the tip of the pony's muzzle fianlly greyed over, a tear of similar make left my eye. It fell to the floor at the pony's feet as I retreated into my garden, only a scant few metres behind me.

That night, as I slept, the faces of the creatures I had petrified flitted about my dreams. Some were my meal for the night, taken while they slept. Others were those that would attempt to take me as their own meal, either desperate or stupid enough to confront me. But one thing stayed in my mind. The disapproving glance of one warm-hearted pony as she stood before another pony covered in stone. A pony that was once a far different colour than the dull grey it currently was. A pony that had had pink in it's hair, a look in it's eyes that showed shock and fear, like it should.

**

The next morning, as I awoke, my dreams came back to me, and something occurred to me: of all the things I had dreamt, one thing had always been present on their face - fear, be it primal fear of a predator come to take them in their sleep, fear of losing a poorly-chosen fight or fear of understanding; knowing what is happening but being powerless to stop it. Fear had always been present.

Until the previous night.

As I hunted, all my prey escaped me and I returned to my garden with an empty stomach. I perched and looked out at my garden, the petrified plants arranged just so, the trees cleared perfectly by my withering gaze, the ground hardened to prevent anything new sprouting and it all managed to feel wrong. Nothing new ever happened. Fear was always felt at my presence, the plants were always arranged the same way, and everything learned to avoid my garden - except the pony outside.

I looked to the horizon, acknowledging it was beginning to darken and crawling to my burrow for the night.