Wraith-Kissed

by Jordan179

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, Romance, Original Character, Horror, Adventure, Princess Celestia, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 3102

Chiller Tale was hideously disfigured when he made the mistake of letting a Wraith kiss him -- and he won fame and fortune. Now his wife is dead, and he is about to give up on his life. What will happen when he returns to where it all began?

Y.O.H. 961: Four Hundred and Sixty-One Years After Luna's Banishment

Chiller ("Wraith-Kissed") Tale was just one of many aspiring bards when he made the mistake of letting a ghost kiss him deep in the Everfree Forest. In one moment he lost his handsome face and released his incredible talent for dark poetry and songs.

That was forty years ago. Now he is one of the favorites of Princess Celestia at her court in Canterlot. But his beloved wife, Sweetsong Snowmane, has died and he has given up on life.

Forty years ago he fled his death, death ponified as a beautiful undead horror. Now, he seeks the death he cheated four decades past.

What will happen when Chiller returns to where it all began?

Published 2016-03-14 06:00:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-09-06 15:45:12 UTC

Chapter 1: At The Restfull Inn

Chapter 1: At The Restfull Inn

The Unicorn stallion who strode into the Restfull Inn at North O'Lake aroused some excitement among the patrons. In part, this was because he was somewhat tall, and of masterful bearing. He wore a full cloak and hood, though the April airs outside were mild, and he seemed in good health. He had a blue-white coat and a long, elaborately-braided white mane. His eyes were pale blue, and -- as he regarded the tavern and its occupants -- seemed cold, and somewhat weary.

The strange thing about his appearance, however, was that he wore a mask.

This was no light domino, such as the Canterlot gentry might affect at masked balls, a mere conventional concealment of well-known identities. This was a full-face black mask, covering all his features save for his eyes and -- as he pulled back his hood -- his ears. This was the sort of mask worn by somepony who did not want anypony to view his face at all.

Robbers wore such all-concealing masks, and long cloaks to cover their Marks. Robbers often dyed their coats and manes as well, the better to avoid being identiifed and swept up by the justice of the Realm.

But those who saw the stallion judged him to be no bandit. He was armed, but only with the small sword of any gentlecolt, and the knife all free Ponies bore: hardly weapons with which to hold up travelers. Both sword and knife were both well-decorated, and apparently quite well made. His cloak was common, but in good condition: its hem had been splashed with some filth from the roads; such was the unavoidable price of wayfaring in the rainy, muddy spring of the Vale of Avalon. And his mask -- it was of fine embroidered silk, the mask of a gentlecolt or even noble, rather than of some common thief.

No, the stranger was clearly no bandit -- and times would have had to have been very bad indeed, for a bandit to walk openly about North O'Lake, a town which lived by the river trade and hence was quite hostile to banditry, within sight of Mount Avalon and the upper spires of the Palace itself, rising just three dozen miles to the northwest. Few bandits would have been so reckless or bold.

What gave away the stallion's identity was the harp-case he bore on his back. Harp-case ... mask ... gentlecolt ... blue-white coat and stark white hair. These together suggested one obvious conclusion.

A rather tall and willowy blue-gray, blond-haired Pegasus mare in Ranger leathers was the first to give voice to this theory.

"'Tis he, himself!" she cried. "'Tis the Wraith-Kissed!"

A general gasp arose among the crowd. "He?" Here?" "Wraith-Kissed!" It was a cry, not of fear -- despite the ominous appellation -- but of excitement. Of adulation.

The stallion winced.

"Hooray!" shouted a big green Earth Pony stallion, in an enthusiastic deep voice. "Wraith-Kissed! Have you come to sing?"

Others joined in. "Yes!" "Yay!" "Wraith-Kissed!" "Give us a song!"

Annoyance flared for a moment in the masked stallion's eyes. Then he sighed in resignation.

"Friends," he addressed the onlookers. "I will indeed sing a song or two, but first allow me to speak with our kind host, and wet my whistle with his fine brandy -- which is to my knowledge always of top quality, and well worth the price! -- before essaying your entertainment." His voice was rich, melliflous and perfectly-controlled; there was something strange about it, as if his vocal apparatus were not entirely normal, but this strangeness did not cause undue distortion. It was beautiful, and more -- it had a haunting, mysterious quality, that utterly rivetted one's attention.

General acclaim ensued, followed by a rush to the bar, where Stone Mug, the big burly gray-brown dappled Earth Pony barkeep, had both forehooves, mane and tail full meeting all the orders for brandy. Soon, coins were clinking on the bar and brandy was gurgling down the throats of the guests.

His admirers temporarily distracted, the masked stallion they called Wraith-Kissed made his way to a table in the back corner, where sat Restfull Bed himself, proprietor of the inn, with one of the aforementioned brandies, and a stack of paperwork.

Restfull looked up at the masked stallion, smiled and raised his glass to him by way of salute. Restfull was a cheerful, chubby middle-aged stallion, orange-coated with bowl-cut flaxen yellow mane, leaf-green eyes twinkling in his florid-cheeked face -- but those eyes were shrewd, and those who knew him well were aware that they missed little in their surroundings. The good cheer, however, was perfectly genuine.

"Well come and well met, Chill," said Restfull Bed. "Thankee for helping to sell my brandy. What bringeth thee to the Lake this fine spring?"

Chiller Tale -- the real name of the masked stallion so many knew as "the Wraith-Kissed" -- sat down at the inn-keeper's table. "A river-boat," he replied, deadpan.

"Hah!" laughed the publican, slapping the table with one forehoof. "Of course it did. The roads are crap, this time of year -- given the poor hygenic habits of too many teamsters, often crap in the most literal truth! Better off to ride the river!" He smiled. "Good to see thee out and about, old friend, especially after --" The merriment in his eyes faded, and he seemed abruptly at a loss for words.

"Indeed," said Chiller, shortly. "I suppose, from thine own words, that news of my loss has now spread throughout the length and breadth of this whole wide Realm of Equestria?"

"Nay," Restfull reassured him. "I would not quite say that. Here we lurk right on the main route south from Canterlot. And I do make it mine own business to keep abreast of all important news from the Palace." He looked about, then leaned in toward Chiller, lowering his voice. "You know I still keep my ears open for the Eerie Eye."

"I supposed so," replied Chiller. "North O'Lake is an important river port; it commands the passage from the upper Avalon to the reach that flows into Saddle Lake, and thence past the Everfree. I would hope the Watch has agents here."

"Just so," said Restfull. "And we do pay more attention to the news than do most Ponies. There are many, even in this town, who know thy name and something of thy fame, but naught of the events of thy life. And more, I would wager, when one travels some distance from the Palace." He sighed. "But, yes, among those who follow the events in the Palace, thy tragedy is widely known."

"I wish none knew," admitted Chiller, lowering his head. "Save perhaps friends, like thyself. Sweetsong was, despite her profession as bard, in many ways a very private mare. She only showed her deeper self to the ones she loved. Her ... death ..." his voice almost failed him, the high-quality instrument almost breaking under his emotional strain. "That should have been prviate as well."

"I know," said Restfull, his own gaze glum. "I had the privilege of calling Sweetsong friend. A lovely lass, and a good mare -- that was Sweetsong, for sure."

Chiller hung his head even lower.

"Let's toast her," suggested the inn-keeper, filling another glass and passing it to his friend.

Chiller took the glass.

Restfull raised his own glass. "To an absent friend," he said loudly. "Whom I shall miss sorely. To Sweetsong Snowmane!"

"To mine own true love!" said Chiller, his tone thick with emotion. "To mine own dear darling, my wife. To Sweetsong Snowmane!"

They clinked glasses and drank deeply. Chiller accomplished this by pulling the mask slightly away from his face with his aura, and inserting the drinking vessel underneath. For him it wa a well-practiced motion; easy for one as dextrous with his telekinesis as was any trained Unicorn musician. The disarrangement of the mask temporarily revealed his lower jaw, the flesh of the forward part of which was curdled and puckered, as if by some strong acid.

Chiller drained his glass in one long swig. He set it down. "Again!" he gasped.

Restfull refilled the glass without protest.

Chiller took another long drink, this time downing only half the glass. He set it down then, breathing heavily. He seemed calmer now.

"Dost thou feel better now?" asked Restfull.

Chiller glared at Restfull for a moment. "How can I ...?" Then he relaxed. "In truth, I do. Thankee, old friend. That is good brandy!"

"Would I make of thee a liar?" laughed Restfull. "'T'would scarce be a friendly act." He smiled. "Mostly, it is that thou didst slow down. I could almost see the anger glowing from thee. To calm thee is the least I could do for an old friend. And 'tis my Talent."

"A good Talent indeed," commented Chiller. "Perhaps better than mere music and song, however skillful."

"I am glad to be of service," said Restfull.

"Naught has really changed, of course," sighed Chiller. "I am still bereaved. The ache is dulled for a while, but ... I fear it shall return."

"I know this well," nodded Restfull, his expression grave. "I can provide solace. I cannot change the truth. Thy grief will return, but t'will also slowly abate over time."

"Thou speakest as one wise in grief," commented Chiller. "Art thou such?"

"Mine own parents, of course," replied Restfull, his ears drooping slightly.

Chiller started with surprise.

"My mother died two winters past," Restfull explained. ""Thou hast been too long immured in Canterlot."

"I pray thee, pardon," said Chiller. "I have lived too long amongst the high, and false. I have neglected mine own true friends." He sighed. "And in the last year I have risen to the heights of hope and been plunged into the depths of despair. I was overcome by joy when dear Sweetsong was at last with foal -- after three decades my wife, our marriage barren -- we had almost given up hope, we were so very happy ..." His voice choked and broke off. A long pause.

"Then, such a difficult birth -- I thought she might die then and there, she bled so much. Then, the happiness of knowing that both mother and child lived -- she welcomed little Cherry Blossom, she held her to herself, talked about how glad she was to finally have a little filly of her own, as she had wanted always. Then, her decline -- her death." Chiller turned anguished eyes on Restfull.

"We were in Canterlot!" Chiller's voice rose in volume. "Princess Celestia sent her best doctors to attend the birth; the midwives were experienced, everypony said they were superb.

"Sweetsong should not have died! I did every thing right!" He pounded the table. "She should not be dead!" The last was an anguished cry, half-muffled by the mask. Chiller fell silent.

Restfull waited, knowing better than to intrude at this moment.

Then, Chiller laughed bitterly. "I may say this protest, again and again. But it changes naught. My wife still lies dead. And 'tis still mine own fault."

"Thine own fault?" gasped Restfull. "But how?" Yet, even as he asked this question, he had a horrible suspicion as to what Chiller would say in return.

"I lay with her!" Chiller snapped harshly. "I got her with child. The fault was mine. Deny that!" That last was half challenge, half plea.

"Chiller --" Restfull pointed out. "That is what married couples do. That is what marriage is for. Thou wert loving her. Not trying to kill her."

"And yet I did kill her," replied Chiller. "Whatever my aim, I killed her, as surely as if I had driven a sword into her, instead of my --" Even in his current self-loathing mood, he clearly shrank at completing that analogy: though, of course, his meaning was terribly plain.

"Thou didst not mean for her to die," Restfull could only repeat. "Thou couldst not foretell her death from thy actions. 'Twas not thy fault."

"Hmph," snorted Chiller. "Wouldst thou be shocked to know that this is also what the Princess told me?"

"Princess Celestia?" asked Restfull. He was surprised by this. He had seen the Princess a few times, passing by or through North O'Lakes, , but he generally thought of her as existing on an entirely different and less earthy world than his own.

"None other," said Chiller. "So, I face a riddle: art thou as wise as Celestia, or is Celestia no wiser than an inn-keeper?"

"Chiller!" chided Restfull, gazing reproachfully at his friend. He would have had trouble analyzing just why, but what Chiller had just said sounded disrespectful, disloyal -- faintly blasphemous.

"I do but jest," said Chiller. "I have only the greatest respect, both for the Crown, and for that most excellent Being who wears it."

"Very well," replied Restfull, mollified by this statement.

"And now to business," said Chiller. "Canst thou recommend unto me a reliable river captain, who departs downstream tomorrow toward Junction?"

"I know of several," said Restfull, eager to converse on a less-depressing topic. "Red Rapids is highly-capable, if a bit rough-spoken: he is brave, and up for anything. Middle Stream is a worthy wight, though very bound by the rules. They are both in my inn right now."

"I ween Red Rapids is likely to be the captain for me," Chiller decided. "Might I speak with him, after I provide thy guests with some entertainment?"

"Certain," replied Restfull. "He spends the night here. I shall inform him of thy interest."

"Thankee, Restfull," said Chiller. "I beg thy pardon that I have been difficult to thee just now. Thou'rt a true friend, and our reunion after more than two years should have been more happy. I fear I am not quite mine old self these days."

"'Tis only to be expected. Thou hast suffered a dreadful loss. 'Twill be some while yet afore thy findest thine old spirits."

Chiller laughed. "I may find mine old spirit sooner than thou might credit. But mine old life -- that ended with Sweetsong's," he said, "just as the life I had before ended when the Wraith kissed me. What new life -- if any -- may now ensue; and whether 'twill be long or short ... these, I fear, are questions not yet revealed to me."

Once again, Restfull was disturbed by the morbidity of Chiller's thoughts. In all the time Restfull had known him, Chiller had always had this very dark side to him. Was this the mark of the Wraith? Restfull had not met him until after his encounter with the ghost. He knew, however, that Sweetsong had kept him sane, helped him channel the darkness into his art. Now, with Sweetsong gone -- Restfull feared that his old friend might go mad; perhaps harm himself. He wished he knew how he might help his friend, beyond providing what solace he might as friend and host.

Restfull thought it good that Chiller was taking this trip, though. Chiller had not told him his reasons for this journey, and Restfull did not want to press him on this point, but Restfull thought he knew the reason. In the old days, Chiller had frequently traveled, often with Sweetsong, all over Equestria in search of new tales to craft into songs. If he was doing that again, it would be good for Chiller's mood. It would mean that Chiller was once again facing the future, rather than dwelling on the painful past.

Chiller was not yet sixty, and he was in good health, as far as Restfull knew. If he pulled out of his present despair, he might have quite a lot of future left.

Restfull certainly hoped so. He had chosen to become an innkeeper because it was a friendly profession, and he tried to make friends. He had many friends now, but still he treasured them all; and especially the ones he had made at the start.

Chiller was one of Restfull's oldest friends, and Chiller wanted to keep on knowing him for decades to come.

Author's Note

North o'Lake was a river town founded on the north coast of Saddle Lake in the 3rd century YOH, some 750 years before this story takes place. It lived by the riverboat trade. In the time before railroads, riverboats carried most of Equestria's inland cargoes. The town was sacked in the Leveller Revolt of the early 13th Century, some 250 years later, and eventually replaced by the town of Saddle Lake, built astride the river.

In medieval Equestria, all free Ponies normally went armed with a utility knife which was used primarily to cut food and other materials. This was a small blade, not meant for combat though it could be used as a weapon in a pinch. Gentle-Ponies carried small swords as a matter of course and indication of their status. This was a more serious weapon, but generally meant for display or duelling, rather than military action.

Chiller Tale, of course, is a poet and singer, rather than a fighter, though like any gentle-Pony he knows the fundamentals of wielding a sword. Not that a sword would do him much good against wraiths in any case. Of course, his aim isn't to put down Ruby Gift. Quite the opposite.

Lacking telegraphs, railroads, and the economic surplus to provide law enforcement between towns, medieval Equestria is of course troubled by banditry. One of the purpose of the Rangers is to combat bandits. A few centuries later, Harmonia Pie will form her own unique anti-bandit fighting force, for very different motives than the maintenance of law and order.

I envision Chiller Tale's voice as sounding rather like Vincent Price's in his prime.

The Ponies, unlike real horses, have no more problem controlling their bodily functions than do we. This does not mean that in the pre-industrial society of the 10th century, lower-class Ponies always behave in what the Ponies of the 15th-16th centuries would consier a civilized fashion.

The Eerie Eye is the Night Watch. Restfull is reminding Chiller that he still does work on the side as a Night Watch informant, which is something he does not want generally-known but which Chiller learned long ago.

Junction was another river landing, located on the promotory where the Muddy and Avalon united, southwest of where Ponyville now stands, four dozen miles east of Pietown (now Nickerlite). It was established in the 1st century YOH, and like North O'Lake was sacked in the Leveller risings of the early 13th century.