What is the colour of the night?
29th of Second Seed, 5E99
For whoever reads these first words in this diary, I must tell you to drop it right now and turn back the way you came from. I can only guess how you managed to find it, likely by my corpse hewn by the assailants that are now chopping at my door. It won't be long now, and I may yet find my peace for all the horrors I committed in the name of a Mother I came to love. As I write now my hooves are still tainted with the blood of so many innocents, even though I tried my best to wash and scrub them to the point where I tore the flesh from my legs to let my own blood cleanse the unholiness. I am struggling with the quill, and my writing may seem askew as such: my entire body refuses to do my bidding any longer. I guess it protests at its newly acquired independence from the grasp of the Void which I served for nearly half a year now; I know that my death will not be the end of me, and that what remains of my soul shall be sent to the Dread Father along with all the memories of me having existed. I will vanish, disappearing from the memory of those that hardly knew me while I have been alive. They will not notice my disappearance as they failed to see me even when I was still breathing, and my blood was inside of me.
I only hope that the door will hold long enough for me to be able to finish what I have to say. If you have any sense left in you, stranger, I beg of you: flee from this unholy ground. As any pony of reasonable upbringing I presume you are, you must know that there are things better left unspoken, truths that nopony should know. Her Majesty was wise in hiding things from its subjects, for the dark path which leads to them will destroy you. Not physically, your own body will be fairly intact when you reach the end of your journey - your mind , however, will be shattered beyond recognition. You will, as I have, find yourself in pieces and begging for someone to pick you up and rebuild your being. And as it were (and shall be if you choose to follow on my footsteps), there exists ... something that will be more than willing to reshape you into somepony you have never known. You will see your face in the mirror and you will not recognize the stranger that gazes back at you: its face will be much like one of a pony that you once knew to be your old self but instead of the feeling of familiarity with the visage you will suddenly have streams of bitter cold running down your veins as the contours of the face will give in to a endless pit of darkness. A darkness that has a voice, calling for you, bearing the name of Sit...
The rest of the page is stained with splotches of blood that had long since dried, leaving the hastily scribbled words unreadable under the flaking paper. In the faint light of a torch held in one hoof by a hooded pony, the scene unveils its dusty history: the skeleton of somepony that was nailed upside down to a wall had broken apart ages ago, its whitened bones dangling against their rusty spikes,and any other trace of flesh and decay had been covered by the thick powder of time. The cabin at the edge of the Everfree Forest was abandoned in who knows how many years, and nopony ever dared to cross its charred doorstep. It had become, over the centuries, a place of unspeakable horror as the stories of its macabre past had piled up in the folklore of the pony folk. But Umbra knew better than that: old stories do not need royal guards to keep their secrets untouched by curious hooves. The dilapidated shack beckoned her to investigate its history, and unfortunately the small dagger hanging at her waist had claimed its fair share of souls that refused to yield the painful grains of truth, including the guards that were posted down the road; her Highness will undoubtedly launch an investigation in their disappearances and the hooded pony enjoyed the perspective of being chased once more. The darkness will cover her tracks once more, as it happened all those many times before.
The book had been partially hidden by the skull of the unfortunate pony; when the rotting neck had given way to the weight of the head, it must have snapped and rolled over the now broken table. Carefully placing the book inside her saddle bag, Umbra picked up the skull with her right hoof and blew into the empty sockets where two inquisitive eyes must have resided once, a generous cloud of dust obscuring for a moment the dim light of the torch that was laid into a worn out metal ring on the left of the table. Letting out a small whistle of admiration, Umbra's left hoof caressed the crisp edges of the cut that had separated the jaw from the skull; sitting down on the soft layer of grass that grew wildly inside the shack, she was genuinely impressed by the precision of the cut: laying it against the thin edge of her own dagger, Umbra frowned a bit at the visible imperfections in her weapon, wishing for a moment that she could wield the keen edge that lopped the mandible clean off the face of what must have been a terrified pony.
"The unlucky mare must have had a hard time swallowing the next part of her ordeal", Umbra giggled at her thoughts, setting aside separately the cloven jaw and the remainder of the skull. She just then noticed how dirty her blade was, and thus proceeded to thoroughly scrape it against a piece of wood that once had been part of the table's supporting legs; the whole procedure took long enough for the moon to peek its shape above the tree tops, and Umbra squinted against the moonlight that invaded the crumbling cabin. The well-known profile of the Mare-in-the-Moon brought to the cloaked pony's attention that very much like the mare of legend, the moon was no friend of hers - she quickly grabbed the torch and rushed outside to a nearby pool of stagnant water, quenching the flames and allowing the veil of the night to once more surround her body as she delved deeper into the untamed woods.
The Umbra dagger hungered for more souls, and Umbra the pony knew that its appetite will never be satiated. Its almost soundless murmurs vibrated against her body, clamoring for the attention that it occasionally received in the full form of spilled blood against the sharp edges of its metal. The pony that was now melding with its surrounding shadows used to think at times that the very souls trapped within the dagger's confinement spoke to her sometimes, whispering thoughts and feelings to her as she slept, and perhaps this ever growing feeling that she might wake up one day trapped by the very blade that claimed her life made Umbra very reluctant to sleep in the past days. She was tired as her four legs fumbled in the winding, wild paths of the forest; she knew her way well enough and her hideout was as secluded as she could've possibly dreamed. Besides, nopony ever bothered to venture that deep in the forest, and the few that did had experienced either a quick death or a similarly close experience at the tip of her dagger. The few that escaped never returned, listening to their own voices of justified precaution.
Reaching for a well concealed entrance to a burrowed cave, Umbra pondered if the wisdom of that pony whose life ended at the hands of unknown powers had been faulty in choosing its bearings, but the thought was fleeting as she smiled, touching the cold blade beside her. There are different powers in this world, and some shared their artifacts with those audacious enough to claim them for their own benefit. As long as she fulfilled her end of the bargain, there was no living being other than that occupying the immortal throne of Equestria who could challenge her and her blade. For all that she knew, the other artifacts had been painstakingly rounded up and locked in the deep cellars of the royal castle, kept far away from anypony seeking the benevolence of the forsaken deities. Some of the gods that once manifested their will on the land had fought against the sisters' powers through their own armies of mercenaries and devout followers, to no avail. Yet Umbra knew They lingered about, crippled but not defeated, expecting the arrival of someone not unlike the writer of the book she now kept in front of her face; illuminated by a meek earthen lamp, the withered and stained first pages revealed underneath them a different sort of paper, less rough and more orderly hoof-written. Leaning against the humid wall of her cozy cavern, Umbra began reading the flowing words.
2nd of Evening Star, 5E98
I do not know for how long I will be able to keep this diary running, but I must find some way to express my pain. The others do not know, they have never bothered to look inside of me and see the suffering of my wretched self. They do not know for they do not care; they prance about each day and night, happily unaware of the darkness that has clouded my whole being for the past year. Last night I cried myself to sleep, screaming mutely at my condition from which I cannot escape. I have no strength left in me as I have ran away from my fears and against my better judgement, all this time seeking for something that will help me forget. But the past is relentless in its chase, and it never tires. I have built around myself walls and fortresses of ignorance and forgetfulness, hoping that I would never have to remember him, hoping that his very existence will someday present itself to my mind as an imagined thought, a passing whisper in a breeze. I have effectively cast aside all memories of myself and he together, all the good times spent by his side as well as the crushing moment when I was aware of the words spoken by the fancy dressed colt in front of my eyes as he addressed me the question. Of course I would be able to recognize the body of my deceased husband, but my mind blocked the meaning of the words.
The funeral itself was littered with ponies of all shapes and sizes, attempting to express their deepest condolences as a way to lift the burden from my heart. I can't remember the faces of almost all of those that attended, and whether they were unicorns, pegasi or earth ponies bears no importance to my right now. I only saw an oak casket being lowered ever so slowly into the freshly dug ditch that would serve as its eternal rest. Inside the coffin, a loving stallion that was taken away from me, somepony that was the center of my entire life from the moment I have met him. Seeing his cold body being entombed until the end of times was too much for me to handle; I dropped to the ground, sobbing and yelling out his name as some of my nameless relatives tried desperately to comfort me. I truly wished that day that I could be buried with him, that my heart had stopped the very instant his did. It is simply incredibly unfair for me to endure such suffering when the thing he gave me the most was happiness - I think I buried part of my heart with him that day, and that fragment of myself I shall never recuperate. Splintered and beaten, my heart grew darker with each day.
A month later, on some random day, I found myself being a husk of a pony. Most of my friends were too polite or too ashamed to point out that my outward appearance resembled that of a living corpse. Livid and stern, I spent that day walking around the town aimlessly, nodding as passersby recognized me and delivered their routine salutations. My mind was surprisingly blank, devoid of everything I would identify as a feeling. I did not feel the autumn chill as the winds picked up, scattering the ponies around me as they sought out for shelter in face of the incoming rain; I did not complain as the sky opened and dumped its streams of cold water against my unkempt mane and the plain cape which I had worn since the day before. I perceived everything around me with a void opinion, and everything presented itself to me sharp and well-defined: the chimes of the metal tubes dangling in the wind, the hurried clops of the ponies that ran for their homes, the outlines of the bare branches of the trees against the storm clouds. My hooves carried me to the park, where I finally let myself drop on one of the soaked benches. And there, under the whipping winds and the cold shower of the storm, I heard the voice for the first time.
It came from somewhere far away, rolling on the hills with the running winds, reflecting on each drop of rain; it enveloped me with a chilling yet welcoming embrace well before my mind had managed to comprehend its words. The nature itself battled against the voice, the elements trying furiously to drown it in the uproar of the thunderstorm but the lightnings and the thunders only sharpened the softly spoken words. By the time the storm had peaked, I was all alone in the park and nopony else could bear witness of what appeared to me as a sign of my mental collapse: in front of my eyes devoid of sentiment, the rain droplets coalesced into familiar shapes as their descent from the heavens seemed to halt at a certain distance away from me, splitting against an unseen body. The shape of an elderly mare profiled itself amidst the rain shower, slowly making its way towards me. I cannot understand now why I felt at peace back then; maybe I was accepting that this must be what the end of life looks like, the messenger of death coming for you personally to deliver your soul to the ethereal realms. When its words finally reached my limping consciousness their clarity surprised me as well as their message:
"... child, your heart full of darkness. I see you as you are, naked and afraid of the Void. I see the part of your life that you have lost, I see the hole that eats at your very being; I am here now, and I have something to show you, if your heart should ever tire of running from the darkness and ready to spread its own shadow, in the name of the Dread Father..."
The sound of a familiar voice and a firm hoof snapped me back to reality. I turned my head to see the face of my younger brother, worried to bits by my carelessness. He grabbed me and pulled me out of the park and into a carriage that waited nearby. Inside, he tried to cover me with blankets to keep me warm and dry, but I protested. I managed to extract a weak smile and show it to him, as words I had no faith in poured out of my mouth. He did not believe them any more than I did, and he went on and on about how I should get on with my life and remember that there are ponies around on which I can rely if I had anything I would like to talk about. There was nothing that I wished to share, nothing that could be explained to someone whose life had not been broken apart by the tides of fate.
The night found me sleepless. I spent a few hours in pitch black darkness, wondering how it would be like to be an unicorn. I was pretty sure that there is a spell somewhere that would help me forget. I had just began to build my walls around me, protecting my fragile mind from reality, and the illusory image of the mare in the rain appeared inside of my head. Her words rung hollow in my mind, senseless sentences conjured up by a reeling psyche. For me the apparition had been a mere projection of my deepest desire, an incarnation of my thoughts of desperation and loneliness. They meant so little and offered no comfort, although the feeling that preceded them was quite a reassuring one. It vaguely reminded me of the times when I was a filly and my mother used to pick me up and hold me close to her chest, it felt almost the same if not for a little unsettling side. My mother was always warm and I could feel her heartbeat resonating with my own. This time, my own emptiness had found an echo in the cold and intangible embrace, a touch of nothingness that found its home in my body depleted of emotions.
I slipped in the realm of dreams unaware of the transition. Once I was inside, I found myself oddly conscious of the fact that wherever I was it must have been a dream. I knew that I was asleep and in the imaginary setting I was also alone, very much like in the waking world. I was in a dark corridor, my hooves clanking against a hard, stony floor. In spite of no visible sources of light, I navigated the length of the hallway at ease, not once hitting a wall or taking a wrong turn into a dead end. I seemed to know my way around the place, and I did not find it weird. After a while I reached a large room, bathed in complete darkness except for a small cone of light, illuminating a narrow table, covered with a mint green bed sheet. I approached the table cautiously, trying to see whether there was anyone else in the room. Other than my slightly shallow breathing, the silence was completely reigning over the shadows outside the light. I looked back to see whether I could go back but the entrance had vanished from sight, obscured by the nearly tangible darkness that surrounded me from all sides. I hurried to the table and as I entered the cone of light a small object caught my attention, appearing out of thin air on the table. A small, serrated blade with a dark handle which fit perfectly in my hoof as I picked it up. Looking back at the table I saw myself under the bed sheet, staring into my own eyes with an unusual smile adorning my face. I was both outside the table and laying on it, staring at myself from both angles. My original self looked back at the blade as my new self smiled ever wider, baring my chest for the blow. I welcomed the blade as it plunged through my stern, perforating my heart. Abandoning the self on the table and back in the first body, I pressed my hoof against the streaming blood and then lifted it in the air: touching the light above my head, I imprinted a hoof on it - still dripping with blood, it became as dark as the shadows of the dream.
What is the colour of the night?
13th of Evening Star, 5E98
My brother was blessed in many ways, his life being a constant reminder of how I managed to fail in mine. His children, two happy and energetic foals named Sun Dancer and Cloud Kicker, are the embodiment of his success and at the same time his tethers in the world of the living. I see how his eyes brighten each time he sees his children, regardless of their occasional mischief: it is the sight of love and affection that I see in his eyes when he picks them up one by one and plays with them in the fields of our farm. Neither of three cared if outside was raining, or snowing (as it should these days considering the time of the year) and they always looked so ... peaceful. Blissfully oblivious as the world turned around them with even and indifferent steps. The kids once tried to drag me into their activities, and their father's voice yielded additional power to their request - this was back when I still had my own source of happiness, and I was yet reluctant to join them and share (even for the shortest of moments) their take on the day. I had a family of my own, although there were only two of us; we often spoke how we would have foals and fillies of our own to fill up the empty house of yours, how we would raise them to be strong and healthy ponies, how they would grow into stallions and mares which would make us proud of being their parents. None of those dreams crossed paths with reality. And those nice children still want me to be a part of their daily life.
I am truly thankful for the two little foals' brave attempts to cheer me up. They only see my sadness and in their precious little minds they concocted a multitude of plans to make me smile again. They are relentless, I must give them that. Sooner or later I was bound to give in to their demands and join my brother's family for a picnic and leave my empty house at the edge of the village. The weather itself was in cahoots with my effervescent relatives, and I can't really say that I was very much bother by the perspective of spending some time out in the sun. Everyone around me was gentle, carefully avoiding anything that could have been said or done that would disturb me from my voluntary decision of socializing once more; although we neared the middle of the month, there was yet no sign of snow in spite of all the pegasi's attempts of corralling the clouds which refused to pack together, and the faces of my young nephews were pouting at the perspective of a Hearth's Warming Eve without the faintest trace of the frozen water blankets. I was not bothered by either of the circumstances: skirting about what had happened and what might happen was pointless at best. For all intents and purposes, I was prepared to have a moderate amount of good time.
What little time it was, it had been well spent. My brother's wife brought in the food in a large hoof-woven basket and after a brief exchange of muffled words, she went back to the house, waving at the little foals as she passed by them. After laying down a soft, checkered bed sheet on the inauspiciously cold ground, my brother prepared the mini feast while the rascals were chasing one another in the open field, circling the barren and old tree that marked the center of my brother's farm. I closed my eyes while the sounds of plates clinking as they touched each other and the cutlery filled my hearing; mingling with the trotting little hooves that circled my unseeing senses, the noises that my somehow hurried brother produced were the provided background for my thoughts. I was not much warmer inside than I felt my skin under the pale sun, and my mind veered to the scenery of my husband's death. I quickly shook my left hoof in front of my face, chasing away the silent pictures that were rolling underneath my eyelids. As I opened my eyes, I saw my brother's concerned look fixed upon me:
"Is there something wrong?" he wondered.
I attempted to dispel his concerns with a well rehearsed smile. As always, he was too polite to call on my bullshit.
"I am fine, it just seems that I have to get used to fresh air again, that's all", I tried to explain.
He sat there for a while, rubbing his stubby chin from which the small and irregular patches of a gray beard protested against his pondering action. He did not look back at me: instead, his gaze turned towards his children who were now taking a short break from chasing and were preoccupied with poking a small ant hill. Without shifting his attention, he picked up a hoof-full of assorted sliced vegetables and filled his plate; after picking out the diced radishes (he had never been a great fan of that particular root, although he clearly put them in the mix as I enjoyed them more than he ever did), he started eating slowly, softly speaking in between the gulps:
"We will always be a family, Lefty. And as long as I breathe ... you will always find someone willing to look after you in our house. Do not take it as pity, dear sister: I don't want to trample over your dignity. Just wanted you to know that some burdens are too heavy for one saddle."
I poked him back jokingly with my hind legs. To be honest, I found it rather funny that he still remembered my old nickname.
Umbra startled herself as her forehead touched the moldy pages. She hadn't had a decent sleep in the past days, and it took its toll on her body. Laying down the book in a small alcove she had dug a few days before, she lifted herself up and started pacing around the cramped cave she sometimes referred to ironically as her "royal suite". The poor light of the earthen lamp amplified the rugged outlines of the burrow, and the mare wished she had found a better hiding place. It was always at night that the minuscule cavern bothered her the most - then again, she rarely sought the company of the moist walls during the day. The Everfree Forest provided enough entertainment for an adventure-loving pony as herself but she always ended at the outskirts of some settlement as the dagger imposed its will on her and demanded its tithe. She glanced upon it as all the shadows in the cave gave way to the darkness emanating from the dishearteningly cold blade: the souls it had gathered in the past year were quieter this night, their usual screams now reduced to a tingling vibration of the vicious edge held firmly in its holster.
Nopony else ever heard the tormented souls, Umbra was sure of that, otherwise they would have been alerted before their existence was forcibly removed from the world of the living at the hooves of the owner of the dagger. For it changed many owners before it rested into the silver maned mare's hooves, considering the young age of the previous owner whose demise bonded Umbra with the likewise named blade. Before she had been faced with that particular kill-or-be-killed scenario, the mare went by a different name, a name not unlike that of the other ponies in her town, a name that she gradually forgot as she removed any trace of those that knew it well. Shadows had been beckoning her for years prior to her first glance of the real dagger; she had an ample and frowned upon collection of books that delved in the ancient magicka of the land, dusty tomes that spoke of Gods bereft of all power and significance since Celestia's reign came to being. In between those decaying pages, she had found stories of the spell-threaded weapons wielded by the warrior ponies of the past ages, tales of bravery against dragons that dwarfed in power and sheer strength any of their fledgling relatives of the current days, wondrous recollections of times when some ponies took the path of the underground and built a civilization of curious machinery and living automatons underneath the feet of the surface dwellers. One of those books in particular caught her attention, for it spoke of spells that could be invoked by non-unicorn ponies.
At first, she thought it to be a joke, some work of fantasy by an author lost to the memories of those ponies who sought reason instead of such imaginative creations. Nopony could've believed such nonsense: how else would the sun lift itself if not by the power of magic wielded by the winged unicorn that was Celestia? No earth pony or pegasi that she ever knew had talents with magic: it was more than obvious that the lack of a horn rendered anypony insensitive to the nature of magicka manipulation, and the common sense was adamant in this matter. She perused the pages in an amusing fashion, as if to give the written word a modicum of credit; page by page, the twisted sentences grew more and more complicated, and she was quickly bored by them; throwing the book against a wall, she witnessed the pages scattering across the floor as the loosened binding of the tome snapped under force of the impact. She groaned at the idea of having to gather them all up and as she bent down to pick a random page, the illustration of an opaque gem transfixed her stare. She could not peel her eyes from the midnight colored stone, its long facets and sharp edges lulling her into a silent admiration. Lifting the piece of paper in the air, she slid her eyes over the top edge of the paper, staring intently at the center piece of the hearth inside the house. And there it was, a splintered sister of the image in the page, fixed into a delicate silver socket.
Back in her cave, Umbra smiled at the memory of how she filled that dark soul gem. Her hooves fiddled with a similar one as she considered the pros and cons of what she was about to do. Difficult to predict, the dremora always were, but there was still a long way to go in the hours of the night and she felt like she could use his company. She no longer needed to concentrate on the wordings of the spell, chanting its arcane words with a voice well accustomed to the nuances of the spellcraft. Reaching for a small bag she had hidden under a small pile of rubble, halfway through the incantation, she pinched a small amount of dust from within and as the final word was uttered she released the powder in the middle of the cave. From a small burst of fire emerged a stallion-shaped apparition decked from head to hooves in the customary dark red and radiant armor of the plane from whence it had been summoned, its flaming eyes scouring the darkness of the cave for the summoner. Crossing eye paths with Umbra, the nightmarish apparition laughed, its open jaw revealing a bottomless pit of fire as each word was punctuated with glowing embers:
"I must admit I was beginning to wonder where you'd end up, child". The dremora turned its head a few times, mockingly bemused by its surroundings. "Definitely not an improvement from the last time. You look tired, kid. Why did you bother to summon me?"
"Can it, churl" sneered Umbra back.
Bound by its summoner's will, the conjured dremora closed its mouth firmly, piercing the darkness with its unblinking, flaming gaze.
"I want you to read to me, churl. I am too tired to hold the book in my hooves. You do it for me, for the usual price of course"
The armored stallion's mouth widened in a fierce grin. It started to pace restlessly, looking at the mare whose body was hidden in the darkness; the lamp had burned out as the dremora's summoning concluded, and the only source of light left was the ember glow seeping through the dremora's armored joints. Umbra laughed at the impatient creature from beyond the mortal plane; as a low ranked being in its domain, it rarely managed to gain possession of such prized trinkets as the soul gem she held in her hooves, and the perspective of increasing its status by capturing the living force of a mortal was enticing, she was sure of it. She spoke very articulately, sharply emphasizing the command words:
"I will give you this soul gem that carries the damned essence of a Royal Guard I had just slain this night. In return, you will read to me from a journal I will give you. You will not stop until I am soundly asleep or I tell you to go. Either way, you will drop the book on the floor before leaving. Just so that we're clear."
The dremora nodded in a silent yet anxious approval. As the ownership of the gem passed from Umbra to it, the creature quickly examined it for its contents; the mare always wondered how exactly were they able to identify without a doubt the energies of different souls, but it was a question best saved for later when she'd have the strength to ask it. She laid down on the patch of dry grass and leaves she had set up as a provisional bed, and closing her eyes she handed the journal over to the dremora. The empty blackness of the cave reverberated under the coarse tone of the otherworldly stallion.
23rd of Evening Star, 5E98
Blood. All over my hooves. I can still smell it, its copper-y tinge invading my nostrils every time my hooves approach my face. I washed them thoroughly before I started writing, and I can't stop myself from shaking. I am terrified and yet incredibly excited by the whole ... experience. Yes, experience is a good word, a solid word, a powerful word. Words give power to thoughts, thoughts give power to actions, actions end up remembered by words. The words that shall follow will describe my action, my doing. I don't want you, whoever you may be, to miss the meaning of the action driven by thoughts powered by words. I think I am going crazy, but it is too much. Too much, too red, too deep imprinted in my coat of fur. Some got in my mane as well, but it washed away. I cannot smell it anymore, but the aroma may rub off on the pages of my journal. Maybe you'll smell it too, stranger, and we'll both share this thrill. Maybe not, maybe you'll be grossed out by this tale. Who knows? Not I. Not anymore.
It happened earlier this morning. My brother invited me to visit the foal sitter that took care of his children in the weekend when he was out of town with his work. His kids were both with us; bless them, I hope they won't have nightmares after what they saw. What they were to see further long the road. The day promised nothing special, and we traveled along the road to the next town in relative silence; the kids were excited to visit their foal sitter's home but were sitting peacefully in their seats, idly commenting at the monotonous landscape that swept by us. My brother did not mind pulling a carriage with the rest of us sitting idly in it, and he occasionally intervened in our colorless discussions with bits of his own opinion. Mostly about the heavy snow that covered the road and much of the landscape. The two brothers were tightly wrapped in their own scarves and hoof-knit fezzes - I was wearing a pretty cozy outfit myself, to keep winter's tendrils from reaching me, and my brother's steady speed stirred little of the packed snowflakes off the ground. My eyes followed the grooves left by other carriages as they toiled through the fresh snow: the darker lines revealing the frozen ground underneath them stretched as far as I could see, up to the vaguely profiled buildings of the town we were headed into. The excitement in the carriage grew with each hoof step that brought all of us closer to the rarely visited urban agglomeration.
I guess I can call it a small city, after all. Not of the likes of Canterlot, of course, for what could possibly match the stories and legends about Her Highness' royal palace and extended suites? Yet, for a bunch of country ponies such as us, it sure looked like a beehive, countless ponies off all shapes and sizes crossing our path as they went about their own business. My brother kept its wits about him, looking intently at several marked posts along the webbed roads. He must have known his way but he did not take any chances with us hanging behind; I am relieved to see now that his caution saved his kids' hides in what came for if it had rested on my own shoulders the outcome would have taken a grim turn, I'm afraid. A slick carriage dashed past us, scaring the kids but at the same time making them cheer for the reckless speed of the galloping pair of stallions that pulled it: I saw my brother tilting his head a few times. With the kids out of ear-shot, I lent over the edge and whispered to him:
"Is there something wrong, brother?"
He did not reply. Instead, he noticed a small sweets shop around the next left turn in the road, and he parked us there. Turning towards us, he said with a strange smile:
"Kids, I'll get us some treats and pick up a few cupcakes for Marina as well. Stay put, OK? Senestra, come down and help me with choosing what's what."
He called me by my name, my true name. His expression shifted for apparent joy to dreary seriousness and I felt it more than the children did, apparently. They cheered the proposal and yelled back at us what flavors they would like for their sugary items; as I entered right behind my brother and closed the shop's door, he started to speak quietly, looking suspiciously around us. What he said warranted his abnormal behavior:
"I don't think I need to remind you what skooma is, do I?"
I shook my head, blinking vaguely in his direction.
"That carriage belongs to one of the local dealers here. Marina told me about them, and what have they done with the city. Sure, everything is nice and friendly and nopony around will tell you how deep their filth has spread under the protective wing of the royal guards - get some of them addicted to that disgusting substance and you'll see how much you can achieve under the very nose of authority. What's worse is that Marina's husband is an addicted himself; I never told that to the kids, and I planned it with Marina so that she would come with us today. The visit is just a pretext, and you might've noticed how close the town is to our farm: there was no real need for a carriage otherwise."
I was a bit surprised by the revelation, but I quickly reminded myself of my brother's kind heart. He would've never turned his back to somepony in need, and the need was great indeed. I solemnly nodded, and whispered back:
"What about her husband? What if he won't let her go?"
Clover took a while to answer. Browsing the available selection of fruitcakes and caramel sweets, he waved the assistant in the shop and pointed at several of the treats displayed behind the thick glass and searched his saddle bag for a hoof-full of bits which he then counted and stacked neatly against the wooden counter in front of the cashier. With the sweets firmly stashed in his bag, he went back towards me, signaling that we should get out of the shop; before opening the door, he said one last thing to me:
"Usually, on days like this one her husband is wasting his wife's money on that drug. He won;t be around to miss her departure."
Everything from the point where we came out of the store is a blur in my mind right now. I remember fragments, sights, sounds: the eyes of Marina were speaking to me about pain and joy with their glare; the spicy taste of cinnamon on my cupcake, the furious rapping at the door of Marina's well tended house. The tangible anger of her husband accompanied by another sordid looking pegasus as they broke through the door. Me being dragged with the children outside of the house by the sickly smelling pegasus that came with Marina's husband. Marina's husband threatening his wife with a blade, Clover putting himself between the blade and Marina. Me panicking, escaping from the other ponies clutches and dashing outside in the snow. Me, tripping on a dark slab hidden underneath the snow, the dirty pegasus chasing me from above. Him, pinning me down against the cold rock. And here is the point from which I remember every single second that passed, in vivid detail.
He carried a dagger which was dangling on his right side. His breath was nauseating and his hooves pressed brutally against my chest as I struggled to wriggle my way out of his grip. I can see my left hoof creepily reaching for the hilt of his blade, him unaware of anything other than how I smelled like. His wet nostrils touched my neck and descended slowly over my chest, repulsing me beyond measure. The sickness petrified me and my head fell to my right, looking back to the house where the man yelled loudly at his wife as she tried her best to cover the kids' ears from the verbal assault. I felt the cold sensation of metal in my hooves, and my body loosened dramatically, surprising the filthy pegasus standing above me. With a quick upward slash I tore off the ligaments underneath his right wing and he collapsed to his left side, screaming in pain. I couldn't see what the others did as I focused solely on my previous attacker. He was squirming , twisting as the small stream of blood from his limp wing tainted the snow with its crimson hues.
I was much smaller than he was but I managed to drag him back onto the black slab: I heard the fear in his pitiful pleas, I saw the pain throbbing throughout his body, I felt his heart pulsating faster and faster as my right hoof felt around his ribcage for the best point of insertion. I was calm, rather serene I would say; his mortified expression as I smiled down on him was a tremendous gift - I instantly burst into laughter, silencing everything around. As sharp as I had cut off my laughing I buried the dagger straight through his heart and removed it quickly afterward, spraying myself with a fine stream of his searingly hot blood. The snow around me was being painted in all shades of red which I admired in great detail; I did not even notice Marina's husband running for his life past me, screaming horribly as he disappeared in the distance. Several ponies from the nearby vicinity gathered around me, trying to reason with me and take me away from the scene of the murder. But what they could not comprehend was that I liked it in there: after all, I had just found my favorite color.