Oblivion

Summer Sun - Year 1561

Sounds all around him, buzzing; they pique his interest. His eyes are set on the natural greenery, which is blown by the free-flowing wind. It rushes all around him, tickling his skin, barely; the scales shielding him from most of its wrath. The trees, tall and stoic giants, show nothing but nature's purity, but he sees them as the nexus of life that stands in the backdrop of the scene. The most important piece to the scene is his friend, who is galloping straight for him. She's smiling, her mane bouncing in the wind. It's chilly, he thought, very chilly tonight. Even in the summer, the night time was chilly. Very—forgotten. Her coat is purple, a pink streak down the center of her mane. She has wings, some decent size ones to be exact. They fly—no, don't—she uses them sometimes to catch the ball whenever he wants to play catch near the library. It's... for hoofball, he thought, just for hoofball. He loves the sport, just like—forgotten.

He sits down and holds his head, grabbing it with care. He gently caresses it, telling himself it's okay to be hurting, be hurting for—something. Something, he can't remember, just a bit of something. He imagines that something, dancing in the...water. He smiles, and—I want—it smiles too. They dance, holding each other. He doesn't know what it has: hooves?—forgotten.

Sitting beside his friend, he holds his claw out to her. He takes her hoof, purple—he remembers that color.

Twilight Sparkle.

"Hello, Spike!" she says happily—her smile is huge—"How is my little dragon doing tonight?"

Forgotten.

She smiles. "That's good." A pause. "I know you like the streak in my mane, you always say so."

He gives her a hug. "I do," he says, his eyes darting towards that color. "Did you ever think about getting it dyed?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

Eyeing the color, it reminds him of some—pony. "It reminds me of some—"

She blushes and interrupts him, "So, you remember how—she was your—"

He frowns. "Who?"

"I thought you knew..." He feels her hoof slither around his neck. "Spike..."

"What?"—did she remember?—"I don't understand."

A lone tear escapes her eye, he saw, the drip escaping the only hole it could go through before making its mark off her coat, dismounting onto the green grass below. "You..." A few words drop with it.

He sighs. Every time he wants to remember—a memory comes. It comes. Loudly. It hurts, he thought, holding his head. A hoof slithers around his neck again. She pats it away, the hurt. Hopefully it's gone. Hopefully.

The sun is high, up there. Somewhere, he thought, a pair of wings would come save him. He wants to fly—don't hit—but something is hindering him. He sees greens, blues, golden hues in the sky; purple and pink are his favorite to see on Twilight, a smile. "Twilight?"

"Yes?" she says, gazing at him.

He holds her smile, even though she's losing it—a tear. "I'm happy you're here."

She nods, tears coming out like mad now. "I know, she told me."

"Who?"

She nods. "Yes, who did. She did."

He nods.

That's all he knew. Who she is is forgotten.

Sitting in the room, he reads with the light's gaze upon him, glaring. Yellow hues paint his book, providing the necessary light he needs. Spike smiles, reading a line from the book, "He who watches watches with the intent of many."

He momentarily looks away from the book to let the phrase sink in. Who is watching whom, he thought, sitting in his recliner. Does it hint to many as one you had forgotten? Like she—who? He didn't know. He quietly set the book aside, got up from his chair, and walked out the front door of the castle. It is a beautiful night, he thought, moon shining on him. A beautiful night to walk.

He walks down the stairs, three gazes beating on him already, two from the guards who wear their uniforms too tight, and a third...

Forgotten.

He stops, looks skyward, sees—who?—nothing. He walks away, minding his own business—hit the—there was a tree there—pony—she is beautiful, just like the night. He admired her as she stood, as beautiful as the leaves fluttering in the wind. He smiled, she smiled; the world is happy again.

"Spike?"—A voice?—"Why are you outside?"

He turns to the voice. "Well I—"

She—forgotten.

"You... what?"

He stares at her. "I... don't know."

Her cyan hoof wraps around his neck. "That's unusual, even for a dragon like you, Spike." She pulls him close. "Say, how about you come with me so we can chat about life?"

What is her name? "About life?"

She smiles—it is beautiful, like the tree—"Yes, about life. I see you doing it with Sweetie Belle all the time. Why not chat with an awesome old friend like me?"

Friend. It stung. "Sure."

Maybe he's forgetting something. Is this who it is?

Whoever who is, he likes her already.

They have been chatting for a while, catching up. Apparently she... well, her name isn't sticking, but she does a lot. She flies—somewhere. Ugh, Spike thought, holding his head again. She told him already all about her, yet none of the information is sticking. All he sees is her—who?—walking beside him, her rainbow mane glistening in the night light, and her eyes twinkling with the stars, reflecting. Her smile slowly fades to a frown, and her wings—she had them closely wrapped around his back—slowly came to her sides, closed. "Spike?"

"Huh?" he says—forgotten.

"Are you all right?" She eyes him up and down. "You have been silent since I told you about the routine I just recently tried out."

"I'm f-fine!"—No, I'm not—"I heard what you said!"

She sighs. "Then tell me what I said."

His eyes widen. "Well..." He didn't know how to start. He remembers her ending moves, not the starting ones! He panics, thinking back to what she said. It's like static to him, he thought, mercilessly trudging through the endless filing cabinets in his mind, searching for that one freak memory he had saved from the conversation. His second self dives into one, tossing out endless thoughts of Twilight's letters; a jubilant little hamster that, as it was tossed, burst into flames; and even a giant crystal heart, one that he imagined was from Cadence, somehow flies out the cabinet, click-clacking against the floors of his mind, which, in present time, makes him clutch his head, groaning.

He sees her waiting: her lip biting a bit out of spite, holding back her impatience, he thought. He is making her wait. He can't stall any longer. "You did a corkscrew into a large dip curve before doing a buccaneer blaze!" he begins, making her gasp. "You then moved into a double helix before launching into a figure eight loop, making yourself get enough speed to travel straight up before crashing down into a sonic rainboom!"

Spike begins to pant after saying his sudden speech. He watches her, stare. Her face is blank, like a fresh new sheet of paper without a single stain of ink on it, while her one brow twitches rapidly. She must think he is wrong. Wronger than anypony.

"Spike..." she says, wrapping her wing around him again. "You were paying attention."

He sighs, much to her chagrin, a sigh of relief. "Thank Celestia."

She smirks. "So you were paying attention?" A nudge. "Because a winner doesn't sigh like that."

He gasps. "U-Uh, I was, honest!" Deny, deny, deny—forgotten.

He sees her hoof nudge his side. "Then why did you look away when we talked about..."

"About what?" He asks.

"Us."—Us?—"Just us."

He tilts his head. "Us?"

She frowns, looks away, and sighs. She sounds like he did, not a winner. "I'm going."

He stops, turns, and yells, "Wait!" before watching her go.

Nothing ever felt so heart-wrenching in his life. His heartstrings are gone, emptiness resides. All that's left...

Forgotten.

Spike woke with the sun shining in his eyes. Last night, he thought, last night was terrible. She—whoever she is—flew from him, upset. She left him for the sole he reason he dreads: forgetting. How he got like this, he thought. How?

He glares at the shiny red heart-shaped garnet on his bedside, one that he made for his ex-love that didn't return his love back. Instead of being in her possession, she gave it back to him, and ever since that day, he kept it on his beside table. It glimmered there, embodying what he once was: hopelessly blind. Blinded by love. A jewel like this should be destroyed.

So, Spike gets out of his bed—sliding—stands by his bedside table, grasps the little deviant in his claws, and...

...he stops.

How does he destroy something like this?

He stares.

How does he destroy something he had crafted for another?

How...

He drops it on the floor and kicks it under the bed.

There, destroyed, the garnet lay. He forgot it.

He smiles, walks out the door, and proceeds down the hall.

It smelled nice. It was just like the nexus of life: beautiful and forgotten.

Outside is where he likes to be. It reminds him of the books he read, where the dragon flew in the skies. They were great, he thought. Too good to be true, a legend, a myth. He read them all, and they were great. Yet, something they all didn't have is the fact of love and forgetting. The characters never forgot. The characters never lost love and if they did, they regained it again through the same lover. It is not—pulling a book away from his head and closing it—fair.

Setting the book aside, he lets his mind wander. The beast within him needs it, since his mind has been forgetting things since last week. He wished he forgot that, where he slipped and fell in front of everypony. He was covered in frosting from the cake he and Pinkie Pie had made for the Mrs. Cake's birthday party. She is a nice mare. She is a good baker.

Maybe he could find one like her, except without the baking. A nice mare: somepony, as he imagined, could save, help, be loyal to, and love all the same. She would love him too, and vow the same. They would be together in his home, where they would sit by the fire and read Daring Do while sipping on two delicious cups of hot cocoa. Even though the hotness of the cocoa would settle and fizzle in his body, he had no qualms with the drink nor with the mare. He would love the mare there, and he would love her anywhere.

Maybe it was her, she—someone.

He grabs his head and holds it with care. Again, he thought, rubbing his cheek softly. It hurt while he was trying to remember who he had forgotten. She must be the missing piece, whoever she is. He needs to see her again. Again? Sometime soon. Once his head stops hurting...

He opens his eyes and sighs. With a swift grab from his claws, the book is in his possession. He opens it and begins to read.

The sun begins to drop.

"He who watches watches with the intent of many..."

The moon begins to rise.

"...so he'll never have to watch again."