Cut the Dark

by GjallarFox

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, Princess Luna, Suicide / Self Harm, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 1429

Time is no friend of Luna's. It is always on her side, even when she wishes it wasn't. The only pony she's ever been able to rely on abandoned her when she needed help, so who else can she trust?

When Luna became Nightmare Moon, it was not of her own volition. She was sick. She was angry and scared, but mostly, she was sick. And when she needed help the most, she was abandoned by the only pony who could understand her fully. Now that she's back in Equestria, she doesn't feel she can trust her own sister. And if the magnanimous Princess Celestia can't be trusted, who can be?

Trigger Warnings: Depression and self-harm.

Published 2015-08-26 00:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-08-26 00:00:01 UTC

Blood Moon

I've always had an affinity for knives. They were such beautiful things, and so simple. Just a handle and a sharp blade. Be they made of stone, or steel, they were always unique, like ponies. I had quite the collection of knives, from the simplest blade to the most ornate ceremonial knives. Each one in my collection had a story to tell, and those stories were immortalized through me. I had a small obsidian knife, only a couple inches long, but sharp enough to make a cut painless. Although the term knife was a bit of a stretch, as it was truly nothing more than a shard of volcanic glass wedged into a notched stick and tied with string. But the little thing held a special sentimental value, as it was given to me by a young foal who was born into poverty.

But I had a favorite knife amongst the many I had. It was a ceremonial blade, given to me by my sister when I raised the moon by myself for the first time. It was a gold-plated, diamond-edged knife, nine inches long; the same length as her horn the day she gave it to me. The handle was encrusted with gems that dragons would kill for, as they contained an ambient magic within them. The cross-guard was a single growth of clear quartz. At the base of the blade, a copy of her cutie mark was engraved into both sides of the blade, the steel enchanted to mimic the colors of the mark. I loved that knife with every fiber of my being. At the time, it represented approval and pride from my beloved sister. It was my first knife. It was my favorite knife. I carried it with me everywhere, and practiced knife-based combat with it. Where most foals my size would have a blanket that they loved and took everywhere, or a teddy bear, I had that knife.

As time moved on, I added knives to my collection, some given to me as gifts from various lovers over the centuries, some given by random ponies who knew of my love of knives, and others I either commissioned from smiths or bought from master artisans. They were all beautiful knives, but none could match the allure that I felt when holding or looking at the one Celestia gave me.

Even here and now, I feel the attraction to that knife. It calls to me in a way that no one else could understand. As I grew lonelier, and colder to affections, the knife began to whisper, begging me to listen to it.

Time is no ally of mine, dear reader. It may leave me and my sister alone, preserving us while ruthlessly ravaging the land and every creature on it, but that was precisely why I hated it. I had loved so many and lost them all. I had made so many close friends, and Time took them all away. To them, they spent vast portions of their lives with me, wasting it all on me when they knew that I would out live them, and their hypothetical children, and their hypothetical grandchildren's grandchildren. They all assured me that they would be satisfied with me, but I doubted every one of them. I knew in my heart and soul that they could never truly be satisfied with someone who didn't age alongside them. I knew that they couldn't be satisfied with someone who could tell them more about their family tree than they themselves could. I knew they couldn't be satisfied with someone who couldn't bear the foals of mortal ponies.

Often I would speak to my sister about my troubles of the heart. I would grieve and I would cry, and she would listen. But at the end of the day, she didn't understand. She could only tell me to "live in the now," and to "not worry about the past or future." I was convinced, and still am, that she was and is a fatalist.

Time took all of them away from me while I watched helplessly. I watched all of them throw away their potential for me. All for what? Titles? Wealth? Bragging rights? Love? They were all fools, and I loved them all deeply, and I mourn their loss to this very day.

Slowly, the knife's whisper became a voice, offering solace. A way to numb the pain; make it bearable to walk out on the streets with a smile again: make it possible to handle one more lover and one more heartbreak. Every so often, I would listen to my favorite knife tempt me with a cure to all of my suffering. I would think on its proposals and offer my own terms.

Eventually, I listened to the knife. One day I picked it up, and very carefully, I made my first cut on my left wing, where the wound would be hidden from sight by my feathers. For only the first moment did it hurt. After that there was a rush of relief, comparable to the rush of a first kiss. After that, numbness set in, and all of the exhaustion; the burden Time had placed upon me was lifted. For once, I felt in control of my pain, rather than like it was in control of me.

It started slowly. I'd only do it when I really needed the relief. I would go as long as I could before I made another cut. Often the previous cut would be healed long before a new one was made. But as I talked to my sister and kept feeling unheard and ignored, I began to need it more often. It became a regular occurrence, and soon enough a daily one. I needed that release, that numbness that came when I cut myself with that knife. It listened to me. It understood me. It comforted me.

Eventually cutting stopped being enough, and that is a day that I still have my own nightmares about, and would rather not speak of...

One-thousand years later, the corruption that arose in me because of my own sadness and pain is still present in the back of my mind. It will never go away, and I know that even that special knife can never cut it out. But I still need to try. I still need to relieve my pain. I'm still here, and I'm still hurt.

But you, dear reader... You won't tell Celestia... will you?

I've begun speaking with young Twilight Sparkle a few fortnights ago under the pretense that I needed to catch up on the events that transpired while I was away. But in truth, I converse with her because her dreams are safer than my own. Hers is always the same; an infinite library she will never read the full contents of. I converse with her because somewhere deep down, I know I can trust her, even more than my own sister. Talking to her was no simple task, as I would often only speak of that days events, not mentioning the drawing of my blood.

I think it's time I found a real way to heal, and I think Twilight may be the best option to help me search. If I ask her, I trust she will be discrete and ensure Celestia does not learn of my struggles.

Luna waited for that door to appear in the Dreamscape for what felt like eons. Tonight was the night. Her wings itched with anxiety and a lack of a night's cuts. But as soon as the door appeared, she did not leap through it like she wanted to so desperately. Instead she just stared at it, trying to ignore her wings.

With a shiver, she opened the door and stepped into the ever familiar infinite library. Twilight's dreams were usually spent in this place, reading the blank books as though they were filled to the brim of light, life, and adventure. Luna almost considered the place a second home, having gotten so used to being here that she knew just how vast the library was, and where exactly in it to find her young unicorn friend.

"Princess Luna!" the mare in question greeted with a smile. "It's good to see you."

The Lunar Diarch offered no words in response. But a sullen expression on her face was all that was necessary to inform Twilight of her need of help. There was a brief silence as Twilight's smile faltered, and she offered another few words: "Come, let's talk."