Unsound

by Nightyarn

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Tragedy, Slice of Life
Length: 6589

Two years since Pinkamena's abandonment, Marble and Limestone toil in the arid dust. But why did Pinka leave? What did she know? Time is running out as Limestone unravels [i]why[/i] her sister abandoned them - and the secrets from which she fled.

Two years since Pinkamena's abandonment, Marble and Limestone toil in the arid dust. But why did Pinka leave? What did she know?

Time is running out as Limestone unravels why her sister abandoned them - and the secrets from which she fled.

The dark tale of the Pie sisters, from the twisted perspective of Limestone. She must struggle with her own delirious qualities as those around her also crumble. Could her unsound mind be the key to why Pinka left all of those years ago?

All characters are © to Hasbro.
Cover art by and is © to me.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-06-05 16:44:27 UTC

Chapter |

Chapter |

Coarse, tuneless whispers spun like cobwebs on the brittle wind, snagging and catching, whistling and wheedling in the feeble, rasping breeze. The scent of dust; most likening to the bilious, trailing odour of sickness.

Home.

I was alone on the fields; rocks and stones littered the earth like beetles to flesh, their dull, dark surfaces glimmering ever so slightly in the sun.

The dust stung my fetlocks, weaving deep into my matted coat and niggling at my flesh as would a fly - but no bother. I watched as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. I could envision it - the glowing, celestial being choking, drowning in the sunken blue, blood emanating from her mouth as she cried out - and sinking. Lower, lower... Down she fell. I watched her throes as any other passer-by would - observing her agony for the meticulous interest of the mind.

It had been a long time since I last spoke as such. A month? A day? - yes. A day. And at the eve of each should Sun choke blood.

My eyes stared - nonchalant, impassive, at the last simmers of petty light before it sputtered and scrabbled for a hold at the peaks of the mountains. It never could quite hold on though, and it wouldn't now.

Down, down it fell.

The valley was purged in darkness.

The Skyblood lit the way as I turned, my hooves weaving between chunks of rock, somehow astray in the oddly barren landscape. I walked on at a steady pace, nonetheless. My hooves were chipped and stained; here, water was rare. We would be lucky if fresh rainfall was scheduled within the next six months, for Ma and Sir's bits were scarce - hence the hot, stale water heaved from the depths of the well, despite our efforts to keep it cool in the arid climate.

No matter.

My muzzle twitched as a scent caught adrift; a hot, vivacious scent. I turned my head to the source of the essence; a barn, it seemed. It was stark - naked, pale walls quartered only by strips of seasoned timber and atop it was lain thatch; green with rot and grime.

Home.

I watched, compassionless, as it burst into flame.

"Up now, up. Wake, Marble - Limestone." I woke groggily, my eyes blinking blearily to Ma's beckoning.

With a half-uttered sigh I rolled from beneath my quilt, placing my hind leg tenderly upon the wooden planks. Gradually, I eased my weight onto it, wincing, before encouraging its sister to handle the burden. My pale, sickly coat shone a dulled silver in the candlelight as I ambled toward the corridor, my flank brushing that of my sibling - Marble. She was an inch shorter, taking after our mother in build, though her eyes shone Sir's muddied amber.

She glanced to my crippled leg, and I barely nodded in appreciation as she extended her hoof - aiding me as I limped down the flight of stairs. No thanks was given as we reached the foot - only a mutual understanding of what must be undertaken. And so we lumbered to the door, and embraced the sickly veil of chill that I had come to associate with the outdoors. Dust, rocks, and the occasional blackened tree.

Marble strutted ahead, her silver mane glinting like hematite in the beige, cloud-filtered light that spilled upon the land. Ma was waiting, her half-moon, gold-rimmed glasses perched upon her muzzle as always, and her damp, sullied green mane ironed back into a tight bun.

"We are rotating the south rocks to the east field. Off!"

I stumbled numbly after Marble, whom was prancing into the last remaining interior of the original barn; the rest had been converted into living quarters. Within, lay an ancient, weathered cart, to which my sister was already fastening herself. Clenching the iron saddle in my teeth, I helped heave it onto her withers, the wooden wheels easing forth with a squealing groan, before maturing to a healthy, trundling rhythm as we made our way out, into the dust.

Already, my head was soaked with sweat as I laboured, throwing rocks into the back of Marble's cart, or nudging them encouragingly across the terrain. The barely-risen sun scored my coat, the heat increasing distinctly. Even the rocks seemed to sweat as my throat rasped, and my eyes watered from the dust. My hooves seemed to waver as if submerged in water before me, as I choked back a swell of nausea. My stomach was drawn tight and knotted - it would be at moonrise that I could finally feed. But it was not this that bothered me - no, it was the silence.

I glanced to Marble, whom had paused to examine a sedimentary rock - her muzzle was scrunched as she inhaled the musty, tasteless odour. It was often peculiar to think her my twin - although we looked alike, her spirit seemed to be lighter - more brisk than mine. She took pleasure in the earth beneath her hooves; the solemn company of the cart and the ingenuity in the formation of the stones for which we toiled.

There had once been a sister more alike to her than I; it pained me to think that Marble may be suffering her lack of company.

"I miss her."

Marble glanced up sharply, before raising her head to her full height. I hobbled to my three well hooves to meet her eye steadily, but her glare pinned me; akin to the eye of the eagle or the snake, those muddy amber jewels glinted harshly.

"Don't speak of her." She muttered, her eyes adopting a steely glint. "She's dead to us."

We trundled back to the barn, cart in tow. Our pelts were filthy and matted with dirt and the sun had long set, abandoning us to stumble in darkness. Marble refused to speak, as did I, but I do not know if it were because there were no words to be said, or neither of us had the words.

It was, as per norm, as First Star that I finally reached the sanctuary of my quilt, the frayed edges tickling at my cheek as I huddled for warmth. Across from me, Marble lay, her face to the wall.

With a sigh, I closed my eyes.

Coarse, tuneless whispers spun like cobwebs...

Chapter ||

Chapter ||

I woke to the mutters and ramblings of the house - the cacophony of squeals and clicks running through the wood like splinter-hair cracks, noticeable only to the attuned ear. It spoke of the cold: of the sand clotting and clinging like rot to the nooks and crevices, and of how its sleep was disturbed by the tormented cries of every floorboard, nail, beam and surface writhing under the plague of midnight deliriums.

It was as the sun rose that we once more heaved the rocks to the opposite field. From far above we must have appeared as bugs; insects caught in the searing heat, scrabbling at sand and scuttling until we were little more than shrivelled, hollowed corpses in the sun. Marble kicked and scuffed at the dust, her hooves beige to the fetlock.

I held my tongue, hauling a large boulder from the cart. The layer of dust and grime curled from my skin as I winced, my marred limb crippling beneath the strain.

Beads of sweat ran clots of grime into my eyes as I staggered into the barn that eve, Marble's withers had been rubbed bare, the raw skin sore and puckered. We each leant heavily upon the other, our breaths the air of the dead mare, so little good it did us. I nuzzled her weakly, and her throat cracked in muttered thanks as we docked the now silenced cart, her leg reaching back to detach herself from the cart.

The skin on her foreleg was inflamed and sore, scabs of crude crimson caked in dried fluids and dust. I glanced to her questioningly, but her gaze flickered towards the barn door, ajar at the beckoning the brittle eve winds. There was little matter in a casual scrape.

We limped into the cooling air, the skies darkening to a hot, ash-grey hue as we finally resigned to the harbour of the derelict barn, the floorboards sputtering as if to herald our approach, and the ceiling muttering with dreams of ghosts long past. Marble strode ahead, her hooves striking the wood with the dissolved delinquency of the clink of a knife. The steady timbre in which I could've once taken comfort seemed cold; almost sharp. But I busied myself instead in lowering my head as we emerged into the dinning room.

No windows offered a brief respite for the eye; nor did the earthen floor wail as had the timber, or whistle in the sharp-tongued breeze - instead hung a time-spoilt illustration of a stallion - near skeletal as he was - straining to ease a boulder to the height of a solitary peak. Below, set into the frame, read the dust-laden engraving:

Sisyphus

"You respect him - yes?"

My spine stiffened, and I turned to dip my head to the figure at the table politely. From beneath my mane I eyed him sitting squarely at the table head - a sharply cut hat and tie; charcoal, and a sour brown coat dressed a chiselled complexion, ruggedly framed by sideburns of an austere, tarnished grey.

"Sir."

He eyed me carefully.

"Good."

His voice grated slightly, as if withered and cracked. A muddied amber gaze settled critically at my leg, before glancing sharply to the kitchen door, out of which Marble emerged, laden with our rations.

Ma's quick, tight paces could be discerned from the kitchen, the hiss and rattle of pots and pans hushing as they cooled with weakening hisses of protest, as would poisoned snakes.

"Marble - your age now?"

She glanced his way with either admiration or fear, her voice hushed and respectful.

"Twelve, Sir."

"Good, good." He murmured, before his eye caught on mine, and his brow furrowed.

"What is it, girl?"

My tongue faltered, as would the heartbeat of the shrew beneath the serpent's pallid glare. Instead, an uncompassionate, cool voice slipped from my tongue.

"Ten." I spoke. "She would be ten now, wouldn't she?"

I watched as his eyes flickered in recognition. The moment of speechlessness spurred me to the heights of giddiness.

"Pinkamena."

Like a snake gathering it's coils, his features crumpled, creasing into a outraged snarl, before slamming his hooves upon the table, his gaunt features stretched wide and his fur bristling. His wild eyes scorched me and I curled my lip to meet the stench of whiskey.

"Get out!" He screamed.

And I did so.

The following morn, we once again toiled the fields. My head span, and the lashes of dust licked my sunburnt hide like the rhythmic claps of the whip. What little respite I had found in the squeals of the cart had digressed to the brittle throb of blood in my ears, and Marble's curses as she hauled the cart from the East field to the West.

My mind lay within the illustration in which Sisyphus was so clearly depicted, the ink callously lining the malformed ribs and sunken, despairing black eyes.

Since I could remember, I recalled his tragic fable - it and been spoken on wizened, scarred and tasteless tongues, as if to convey a deeper meaning than the common tale.

I had grasped onto the concept of the eternally labouring Sisyphus; it was the only reason - the only explanation for our existence; the reason why we hauled and heaved and marred, twisted and crippled ourselves in the effort for our one fruitless travail.

But even the black-eyed stallion, dissolved to mere instinctual despair by the longitude of his fustian efforts, had a reason - a motive, even if it were not his will.

My mother always told me that he had committed a great crime against the gods.

Whether he spat on their hooves, or merely begged for water is yet to be known, and assuredly never will, but his sentence was of this; to labour, to push, to heave each day the weight of a boulder up a mountain, only to see it roll, clamber once more to the floor of the valley like an unruly beast. And each morn, he would heave it once more to the peak in a feat of what was deemed to be futile labour.

My mother told me that Sisyphus found pride in the fact that each day he toiled, he completed his task. He won - he defeated the boulder apparently destined to defeat him and cripple his rebellious spirit.

But when I saw those black eyes, I saw one already crushed, by his crimes as much as his labour.

My hoofsteps were brisk and determined that night, my hobbling gait hindering me little. I did not take pride in 'defeating' my tasks. That was stallion's foolery. But as I strode, I pondered. I thought of Sir's blistering anger, and Marble's cold refraction. I mused on Ma's distance and the ever-yielding enigma of Pinkamena. As I did so, I caught the faintest trail of smoke on the air.

Chapter |||

Chapter |||

The silhouetted trees swayed peacefully on the horizon, the soft murmurs of the breeze soothing in the early glow of morning. Marble lay nestled in her blanket, whilst I gazed out, towards the horizon and the gentle contours of the dust's subtle flanks.

The land itself seemed to slumber, my mane spindling lightly in the slight, sleepy breeze. It was in these moments that I wanted to cease; to lay my anxieties to rest.

But it could not be so.

What little I could grasp from my tenuous slumber settled - troubling, cancerous tumours of the mind.

(I watched, compassionless, as it burst into flames.)

Gradually, I lowered my head, allowing it to rest heavily upon the windowsill.

Flames. Yes, that was it. Fire.

Fire, and screams.

Dust. It settled upon us always. Within our mouths; upon our tongues - our hooves, our eyes. In a way, it was a relatively comforting aspect. For no matter how it blew, how the winds gusted it would never fade. There would always be dust.

I inhaled, my muzzle lowered to the earth. The scent of rocks was almost ripe with a moist, tasteless odour. Sedimentary, then. I grunted as my hind leg clenched in wariness. It was a pitiful sight as I hauled the boulder to Marble's cart, my muzzle chafed and my eyes raw. I was the only one to have such a hue; a kindling, faded indigo. It felt little a privilege as my body swayed in the midday sun, my head heavy and my legs weak. My crippled limb was no charity as I grasped another rock, heaving it as I had the first.

My breath caught, and I chuckled - it sounded thin and wavering. What would Grandmother Surprise have thought? Although long-legged, I was strong in stature. My chest was deep, my legs strong and my neck had the distinct curvature of a carthorse. If that was what they called us. So hearing myself, so weak, so frail rose a flurry of small, quaking impulses that burst in my chest. They hurt.

I had limped as such as long as I could remember - the tissue on my leg melded into a mess of warped skin and rivulets of flesh, masked by little of my fur.

Ma and Sir had refused on their part to offer any explanation - and so it remained that way. The very bone within my crippled limb seemed malformed and twisted. In the whole it was a pathetic visage.

No matter.

From afar, I gleaned the ashen silhouette of Sir, his curt, arrogant strides trailing small blooms of dust in his wake. He was headed towards the well, I realised. Ma, as per usual, took residency in the barn, sheltered from the heat, the sun and the dust. Her eyes were a veiled blue; pale and frigid. Only Pinkamena had inherited her icy glower, though hers had glimmered a warm summer-blue.

I raised my muzzle to the heavens as a wet splatter struck my flesh like alcohol. The skies were knotted and congested, and gradually they began to leak.

I smiled.

Sir needn't go to the well.

I staggered into the barn, my mane sodden and my fetlocks slick with grime. The occasional patter had become a downpour in the time it had taken for the moon to languidly rise, and Marble had disregarded the stray boulder she had carelessly abandoned as it had stolen from her cart.

She had been enwrapped by warmth within walls as I ambled back into the wasteland, darkened by the sudden lapse in the drought. And then became the onslaught.

Marble had already retreated to her bed as I stumbled into the barn, dripping and shivering. Sir barely allowed me a glance as I picked at my rations.

His eyes were lidded and weary, the skin beneath tainted to a deeper shade by sleepless nights and whiskey.

Perhaps it was this that loosened my tongue, but his features rendered dampened surprise as I spoke.

"We'll have fresh water tomorrow?"

"...Yes." He breathed with a slight nod.

A small, chiming augury sounded as I glanced to his grizzled mane, his blanched coat and heavily-lying features. And within me, rang a strange, primal fear for him.

"What was farmed here before?" I looked at him as he gazed nonchalantly at the tankard cradled in his hoof.

"I don't know. Nobody knew. Wheat, barely... They say it went down in flames. Nothing to set alight to any more.

"That's what he said. What did he know. He... They said, we shouldn't come. You and little Marble and... You were only three."

The whiskey smelt rank on his breath and his eyes were fevered; devoured by memories tearing, raging, bedimming his vision with the smoke of their fires.

"... Limestone." His rant had taxed him. "I... I think you should..."

"Yes, Sir."

My voice was little but a sigh as I limped from his mournful gaze, my hoof abrading the first step unsteadily. Gritting my teeth, I tediously, step-by-step, climbed to the mount of the stairs, my crippled limb aching testily as I limped down the hallway.

My brow furrowed, as I neared the doorframe. A flickering, calescent hue emanated into the hallway. I stood, my eyes dark as the candle flickered weakly, illuminating a figure crouched upon the bed before me.

Marble gazed at me blankly as her forelimb oozed blood, black in the meagre light. Her maw was spattered and stained in a ghastly array, her jowls glistening. And as I stared, she smiled. Slivers of flesh caught between her teeth, the rare gleam of ivory sparsely gleaned beneath the blood. And her eyes - they were half moons - almost at rest beneath her mane, illuminated an ethereal silver.

Tears caught amber in the candlelight, trailing down her flesh. As one reached the matted blood, it hesitated, the droplet of such purity seemingly aghast, before it launched once more, cutting swathes through the darkened crimson.

My hooves clopped steadily as I padded forth, leaning my shoulder reassuringly against hers.

Marble's withers shook as she sobbed silently, raising a shaking foreleg to her mouth.

I halted her hoof with my own.

"You... You were always this..."

She merely moaned in response. It wasn't a question; the simple knowledge seemed almost crude - awoken on an instinctual level only once it was a little too late. I had always known - but as a foal will not recall her first steps, I did not remember the cuts, the fragility; the knowledge that I had possessed as an infant had but slipped away by the hooves of time and maturity.

"Hush."

She grasped my shoulder, gasping for breath in the midst of the choked sobs quaking her body, until they finally subsided. I lay her slumbering figure down gently, my steps light as not to waken her. Ma sat rigidly, her own rations half-consumed as I called for her gently.

She cantered to Marble's bedside, but I needn't have worried - she was bloodless, sunken to the depths of unconsciousness, and the gouged wound glistened wetly in the candlelight.

"No no no, not another..." Ma muttered fervently as she leant close to touch Marble's forehead.

I shuddered.

Chapter ||||

I watched, compassionless, as it burst into flame.

Thick, frayed wool clotted my flesh. My breaths scraped hoarse in the silence, light upon my lungs in the bladed morning air. What little sleep I had harboured sank to the bitter pits of my stomach, sifting uneasily as I woke, easing myself from the mattress.

Marble lay, quiescent upon the bed beside my own. Ma lay within the confines of her room still; she had remained dressing the wound into the early hours as the hoof of the clock lurched forth into yet another hour, in the black beyond the candle, her hooves moving deftly; swiftly, her eyes sharp in their wariness.

My tongue scraped dry upon my teeth as I lurched down the steps, folding my leg behind before clearing the dining room and ambling into the pale wash of sky, the palling horizon beige in the dust.

I entered the barn.

The cart, as ever, lay stubborn upon the rotting hay, reluctant to my touch as I eased myself into the clamp of its metal grasp, abrading as would be stone in its disrepair.

The trundling rhythm seemed not as at ease; as agreeable as it had been to my twin. My flesh seemed alien upon its touch, my stride impeded by its swaying gait. I raised my eyes to the sky, my mane brushing back upon my withers. The skies washed pale as they did so rarely, almost sickly in the passing of dawn, and yet brought no warmth to these lands; the earth remained cold and stale, the air crisp and smothering in its fever.

My hooves spat dust and chips of earth as I staggered, clad in the mucid chill as would be the flesh of one departed. It seemed odd; irrelevant somehow, that I could be bound so tightly in mortality yet adrift in the beige of the earth; of the sky. Of nowhere. It seemed little a matter in the quiet.

The ataraxy seemed reminiscent of time from which little had passed - whence there had been a third child among us; sacrosanct in her delicacy, her little hooves caked in dust, her mane glinting rose in the dim light. I gazed out upon the horizon, the wind teasing at my mane, the silence the echo only of my breaths.

This was no place for a child.

Upon moonrise I finally took my leave, limping into the stomach of timber with my head hung low, my spine alight in wearied pain and my mane brushed aback. The metal grasp of the cart had chafed at my withers, bloody and raw in the meagre light as I settled at the table to eat.

Sir was nowhere to be seen; perhaps coveted within the confines of his room, whiskey in hoof. Ma once more had abandoned her pots and pans to hiss and writhe, her attentions stolen to my sibling.

My ears tuned to the silence, the stray clicks of the house abrading as it uncoiled in trepid repose. I hobbled to my hooves, grit chafing between my limbs as I clambered up the steps once more, each lurch cumbrous upon my joints in the late hour.

Clacks resounded down the hallway as my hooves struck the timber, leaving no mark in their wake other than the fallen dust. My tail ushered the few traces aside as I hobbled into the confines of our room.

Marble lay, unresponsive in the depths of her slumber. I sighed, my raw flesh blistering as I clambered onto my bed and nestled into the blanket.

(This was no place for a child...)

The light breeze drew quick upon the ashen soil, clouds starved and ribbed in their haste, fled from the gullet of the peaks so distant upon the horizon. Rocks, studded upon the earth like unbidden growths, sought to obstruct the passage of the cart and I; the wheels whining and my spine tingeing as we wove our way towards the East field. Little had changed since the morning before; the air was brisk and arid, the dust clinging to my fur.

My stride faltered, my hooves grovelling in the dirt as I gazed upwards, my eyes resting upon a rift; a lapse in the continuum of dust and rocks - of the mutters of aged timber, the stench of whiskey or the touch of feverous deliriums in the night.

The tree was blackened, its bark withered and smooth, skeletal. Veins clawed in stark contrast to the pallid skies, the sheer blackness of the growth seemingly unable to do anything other than scrabble - reach elsewhere than the dust to which it seemed to such odds at. Elsewhere than the stones, the haze that lay heavy upon the eye in the distance, or the ravenous jaws of the mountains. To the clouds - to the sky. It seemed to clamber towards to the sun; towards the light.

I unhitched myself from the cart, crumpling to my knees at it's roots.

We all knew where the sun went.

It was as the crimson had been ushered aside by the coming darkness that I limped, my hooves clacking upon the floors, into the shelter, the creaks like the murmurs of aged throats to my ears as I settled down to eat, before drawing from the seat to the sanctum of my room.

The corridor was dark; dank as the stench of thatch descended upon the hallway like a fog. My tongue curled as I hobbled, my chest weak, fluttering in the sudden quiet. Ma's clattering sounded distant; a mere echo on the air. The wood had fallen silent. I walked the hallway alone, the candles stale as I made my way towards our room.

Marble's coat had an odd, iridescent quality; the indigo tarnished to a metallic, worn grey - cold in the remaining candlelight, bitter, foul and yet sterile all the same.

My throat tightened, my head raising in the slightest.

Her eyes were open.

Upon my approach, she appeared to recoil, her muscles stiffening, her pupils retracting - wild and fearful. There was no blood; as I had hoped - instead, the shadows strung like cobwebs to the ceiling; the crisp, defined edges, curled in time and age between wooden planks and to her, her shoulders ever so slightly swaying, as if she were upon a boat of her own making; where dust had gathered, the black yarn of dusk spinning, spinning.

The rhythm in my chest fluctuated; burning, it's wings abrading my eardrums with their thunder as I stumbled back, only to discover the wielding presence of the door, now containing; confining, as her gaze became leaden - black in the coming dark.

I hobbled across, reaching for the doorknob before my ears perked. Marble's silvery voice sang light, airy, the web of the spider, caught adrift by the breeze. Her lips spoke with the allurance - the promise of the chime of the wine glass, the singing, melodic, knife-tip tune when rubbed at its rim, wavering. Faltering. Repeating.

"Burn."

The door creaked wide, blood roaring in my ears as my hooves skittered.

"Burn."

I bolted into the hallway, the clack my hooves seemingly off-kilter, my ears ringing and my chest thrumming.

"Burn..."

I staggered further back, the scent of long-dead smoke accenting the darkness with a stomach-coiling tang.

(Burn burn burn burn burn burn...)

Grinding my hoof against the wood, I turned to face the long-stilled candles, cold and silent.

(...burn burn burn burn burn burn...)

The wick flickered to life.

Chapter |||||

Chance.

Sometimes we are caught unawares by it. Sometimes it is what we hope for - and sometimes it is what we've dreamt of. Sometimes, a chance is an opportunity. And sometimes it is the lapse in which we lay down our heads in defeat, knowing we have yet to be beaten.

But it is when a chance strikes you - when all else is hushed away and the spindling wheel begins to turn by itself; when the impossible begins to come into play, when chance becomes a puppeteer; the strings the tenuous ground upon which each hoof would rest in the blackness of the stage - an audience of two, puppet and master dancing in the darkness and the ropes.

Fire. It had haunted my dreams, my wakening thoughts and wonderings. It had burnished the pages of my mind, it's warmth ever present. Yet in a book it can be hard to observe the paper; only the bold lettering hooks the eye, drawing from the texture - the slight ripple of time-worn texts or the indentations in the shape of the pages combined, the landscape of breath-thin rivulets, each a story, a page in a chapter.

Yet words could never have described fire. It was cannibalistic, intense and refined as was the tip of the knife, yet spun and enraptured the eye like the dance of a child. It sang with the simplicity of youthful promise, yet a single tongue withheld the wisdom of a tome within its ever-rippling folds of luminescent warmth.

It came to my attention that I was now leant, my flank lain upon the floor and my shoulder pressed meatily against the pallid plaster wall. My hooves laid, supportive of my sagging figure before me.

My mind surged with warmth, with a ferocious distance and a fixating, alluring childlike innocence as I raised my muzzle to the candle, now above me. It burnt. My gaze seemed to spur it onwards, my heart drumming in my chest as the flames heightened and quickened.

Aside from the fury of the blaze, my attention was drawn to a drizzle of embers fallen from the candle. They spun airily, little lanterns as they drifted down to the floor.

A small, thin rug occupied the hallway. It was long and slender, it's width but a strip down the timber alley, it's long-faded red hues riddled with dust and moth-bitten. As the embers fell upon it, it caught alight - the colours caught, dancing and rippling. I could hear it, a sweet, white whine in my ears, it's pitch blinding in its brilliance as I reached forwards to touch it. To be at one with home. To reconcile with the flames.

My vision flickered, blotched black as my skin caught aflame, my flesh blackening and curling to the stench of burning hair. My awareness faltered, my mind wreathed in agony as I fell, the floor sinking into the dark as my eyes closed.

And all was quiet.

Smoke billowed from the windows, the wood glowing a pure, unaltered crimson at the edges as the flames tore at the walls, the beds and desks, the carpet ablaze. She was stumbling towards the kitchen, her lungs gasping for air and her eyes boiling with pressure. It had been calming, relieving, even - to watch as the lamp had caught alight to her eye, the warmth welcome upon her skin. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to caress it, but she knew it would not be wise. And how she had struggled to mute the flames when the torch had fallen, her little hooves stomping, but to no avail - the fire only wanted to draw closer to her touch, the flames licking painfully near, nipping at her flanks and chin.

She did so in silence, her little muzzle raised, her wide eyes fearful as her little friend; her creation had grown huge and wild, tearing at her home, insatiable in its excitement. She had cantered toward the door, longing for the cool; the breeze upon her smoke-blackened skin. She screamed as a beam of the building tore loose, still blazing as it clamped her hind leg beneath the ruin. The flesh had melted, warped, the broken bone within a relief as she lost all feeling in her limb. Her eyelids began to droop, her attempts to drag herself forwards becoming weaker as a beige figure galloped around the corner, his hooves thunder as he skidded to a halt at her side, dragging her from the brace. With the pressure released, she began to feel pain like no other. Her vision faltered, black spots fizzling in her sight as she succumbed to the exhaustion, pages sinking into the ink.

"You're going to be fine, Lime. C'mon girl... C'mon..."

I gasped, my lungs seemingly filled with hot coals as I inhaled. My throat felt scabbed, my flesh bound in bandages, naked of both fur and skin. I gazed down towards my muzzle, only to see the ivory of yet more binds. Blotches and stains of red seeped between the sheets of material, the bandages soiled in blood and char.

My eyes felt like gravel marbles in their sockets. On an attempt to open my left, I felt a stab of panic as it refused to do so. It burned ferociously, as did the rest of my corpse. There was so little left of me it seemed I had been peeled inside out.

"...She might not recover...and if she does...wait and see...awakened again. We can't be...no longer safe...burn."

Voices melted and merged into one another as I groaned; the sound seemed alien to my own tongue as I tried to heave myself upright, only to collapse, quivering.

"...give me something... let's hope... no more..."

I felt something tighten around my head, drawing a painful gasp from my lungs as my vision went dark. The bandage felt cold against my forehead, stinging as water trickled down my flesh.

My eyes fluttered weakly as I lay splayed upon the table; the surgeon examining my leg fell back upon his seat, his eyes plucking across Sir's features sullenly.

"We're talking about bits here, Indigenous." His brow creased in concern.

"How much."

"Now, I can't make any allowances-"

"How much."

The doctor swallowed, shifting in his seat.

"Five thousand bits."

There was a sharp intake of breath, Sir's eyes widening ever so slightly.

"You know I don't have that kind of money."

"I'm sorry Sir, but-"

"Forget it. We can't stay here anyway. Not with our hellspawn."

"Sir?-"

"Thank you for your time."

"Sir, I strongly advise!-"

A firm hoof slung me over his back, the fresh air buffering me as I was carried from the doctors surgery, into the sun, the heat and scalding light....

I heard the hoofsteps retreat from my bedside, mewling pathetically as I strained against my binds. A blanket had been lain over me and secured to the sides of the table - loose enough to avoid aggravating my wounds, tight enough to cling to my figure and allow me no escape in my weakened state. The blindfold still felt damp to my skin, and the faint trace of smoke lingered in the air. I twitched my ear, my hooves agonising as if between tightened braces. My chest heaved for breath as I slipped away once more...

"... He can be their value. Their model. It will be the story they'll remember and find meaning in."

"He will destroy them."

"Then tell me what this is." Seethed a tight-lipped reply. "I see nothing but dust. Dust, dirt and more dirt."

"They will be harmless here."

"Harmless." Cloudy Quartz snorted, her voice cracking. "And what of Pinka? She'll grow in this hellhole too? Our daughter?"

"... Yes."

"Indiginous?"

"Yes?"

"Go buck yourself."

I woke in a cold sweat. My eye blinked rapidly, my chest heaving and my legs twitching. My heart thrummed in my ears as my terror-eyed stare caught upon a figure perched by my bedside, a benevolent smile complimenting her features.

My twin.

She seemed so different now than she had been a month ago, when she had strode with a steadfast arrogance; now, she was but a ghost, at peace with all but herself. Unsound. I stiffened as she tugged the blanket aside in her teeth, releasing it with a knowing smile, before turning and walking up the stairs.

I lay, still and silent, the stale drafts cool as I turned the book over in my mind; the text now insignificant compared to the charred edges of the paper. They had been burnt before.

I came to my decision.

I rolled towards the lip of the table, my front limbs dangling down. Cautiously, I slipped down, wincing as I collapsed on the floor, my limbs crumpling. I raised my head with effort, beginning to crawl forwards on my knees. My flesh grated against the rims of wood, my tongue bleeding between my teeth to hold back the cries as my eye wetted and leaked upon my cheeks. I crawled beneath the portrait of Sisyphus, the eternal labourer, and knew that he had forgotten an option.

Eventually, I reached the steps. Blood smeared my trail in a path of drying gore, and my underside was raw and puckered. Curling my lip, I struck out for the first step, my knee hooking the edge as I dragged myself up. Blood and scabs were ripped clean, my tongue now bleeding freely as I arched my neck in pain. Again, I rose to another step, again my teeth bit in agony.

As my hoof grated the top step, I heaved one final time. My corpse lurched, stiffened and pulled myself over the rim, onto the floor above. I collapsed, my lungs hoarse and my underbelly burning.

(Not far to go now not far to go)

I raised my head, closing my eye for a brief moment of respite. A final moment of peace, before I opened it once more, blazing pale, frore indigo. Gritting my teeth, I jerked one leg beneath me, then another, hobbling as would a spider given only half of each limb, I rose, unsteady and sallow. I swayed, before staggering forwards. There was no sound. The only percussions seemed distant and clouded as I hobbled into my room. Marble was not there. I took a moment to breathe the scent of wood and sweat - the place where I had slept for the last ten years. Home. It was odd - I had not imagined that I would have grown so close, so sentimental to a room designed as my confinement.

Staggering towards the window, I nudged it open with a bloody muzzle, leaving smears on the pane. I paused to watch my reflection. My hair was nonexistent; my fur had been burnt away and my features torn by the fire, unrecognisably blackened and twisted. An eyelid had been singed away, the eye beneath melded, burnished and milky.

And so I come to stand here now. Dust catches in my throat and lungs, and my breath hitches. The sun scrabbles for a hold at the peaks of the mountains. It never could quite hold on though.

It never would.

My forelegs buckle, my spine arching as I topple forwards.

Down, down I fall.

The valley was purged in darkness.