Tantibus

by Masterweaver

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Tantabus, Nightmare Moon, Princess Luna
Length: 1221

What goes through the mind of a nightmare?

What goes through the mind of a nightmare?

How does it view the world?

How could it justify its rampage?

Published 2015-07-12 04:50:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-07-12 04:50:02 UTC

The Night Out

This night dream session is different.

It starts with the mother asking again for me to give her love memory pain like she always did before. She is my everything, the mother, and I live to worship torment remind her of that. And so I give her my love in the way she has shown, and she gives me her love as she has always in turn. It is small, it is small, it is so small, but it is ours and ours alone...

Ghosts arrive, as always. And the mother prepares to slaughter mourn contemplate them as always. But these ghosts.... these ghosts are different. They do not have the gray in the eyes the others have. They do not have the failure that comes with resistance. They are...

They are...

They are.

They are, and so they must be. And yet, I can tell, they are not loved like I, not like the mother. This is saddening; is not love the only thing worth living killing existing for? I know then that I must care for these ghosts. But how to reach them... I have seen the mother swim walk travel through the realm of stars. Perhaps that way lies the home of the ghosts? I twist through the walls, and away, away, away I go, looking for faces I have seen but once. The mother cries, perhaps in fear hope worry that I might not return, but I will.

The blue one is first, I find. She duels and twists and cavorts through unending mania, her emotions the bright powerful comforting that the mother always pushes away when she summons me. That is how I know she is wrong, she is sick, she is unloved. But... it is odd, that she does something so similar to the mother, and makes the feeling so strange wrong misplaced. Perhaps different ponies feel differently about different things?

I twist around one of the ghosts, stroking it with my power. It shifts into... a flower? I know the mother screams cries laughs whenever flowers die, so perhaps...

The flower is singing.

And... it seems to cause the blue one to falter wince blink and her emotions start to darken as she turns. This is not... something I have encountered. But what works, works. I twist around her other ghosts, and soon many flowers are singing to her, loving her. I know she enjoys hates appreciates what I am doing, her heart has become as dark as the mother's usually is.

I leave her and travel the stars again. The mother calls, but though I love her I cannot return knowing there is suffering.

The yellow one is next... and her situation is almost the inverse of what the blue one's was. The only similarity is the emotion pumping through her as she flies through the jungle, one animal to the next to the last to the first. I see she wants to be loved, and so tends to these others, but they are loving her wrong. Why are so many ponies not loved like the mother?

I move to help. A twist here, a twirl there.

The animals converge, biting clawing roaring at her as she runs. I see the love darken her. My work here is done. As I leave her to her fate, I contemplate how few her friends must be.

The mother almost spots me as I dive into another dream, but I remain still when she peers in. It hurts amuses twists me so, to see how she misses me. Worry not, I will return. I have accomplished a third of my set goals; you will be so proud disappointed happy with me when I return.

Ah, the orange one. Strange, her ghosts have faces as well... but they are not. Not like she and the others are. Their very presence is brightening her feelings, encouraging tormenting reminding her as she watches the stars with them.

I've destroyed ghosts before. First the mare, rotting away in a burst of green fire. Then the stallion, dust along the wind. His hat falls to the ground, becomes the ground, and the orange one falls, falls, falls...

Her dream ends abruptly, and the mother snaps around, but already I am moving to the next dream. Patience, patience! I will return, I have said this! She cannot glimpse me before I dive into the next dream...

The white one. This... this is interesting. I have never seen a dream with purpose before. I simply watch as she makes her artifacts dance round into patterns and shapes, some falling apart and others coming together. All the dreams I have seen before were passive, but here, here there is control.

And yet... and yet, again, I see the curse. She makes one of her artpieces, and instead of inspiring the dark love that I know is right, it brightens her emotions. This is infuriating incredible disheartening! I watch as again and again and again she makes something new and it only makes her worse.

No. I cannot watch. I must act.

I create a construct. It has eyes covered in shades, a hide covered in gems, a voice covered in authority. It moves to each of her artworks and one by one destroys them. I do not know how to set her art on the right path, I will have to return some other night, but at the moment this is helping; I can feel the darkness taking her. One day, one day soon.

The mother is waiting for me as I leave the dream, but I dart zip dash between her legs and rush into the next dream. This is the pink one's and--and what is this? She is so bright it has driven her mad! I can barely twist some of her ghosts before the spin of the dream throws me out. A lost cause, perhaps, but even if I failed tonight I can always return.

I land in the final dream and--oh. Oh, this is interesting. This is barely a dream at all. The purple one is filing and refiling all that she has learned, all that she has thought, as though it was important. She is as bright as the rest, yes, but she is also... like the mother. Her horn wings hooves shimmer with power. I must be delicate.

I throw down a shelf of books, but she does not darken. She spikes, perhaps, but she picks the books up. Hmm.

The books are the source of the problem. Perhaps they can be the source of the solution.

I twist the books, and they rise, blank pages spinning round her. She walks through in an attempt to escape, but her new dreamscape is white with static and shrinks compresses tightens around her. And there is the darkness, there is the love, just starting as she fights to escape...

The night is coming to a close, though. I leave reluctantly sadly proudly, wishing I could do more for her, but there will always be the next night. I return to the mother, and I love her, and she loves me. And so she wakes, and so I slumber dream plan...

Author's Note

What is love?

What is hate?

What is fear?

What is joy?