Death? I can fix that.

by Journeyman

Rating: mature
Tags: Spike, Horror, Crossover, Sex, Twilight Sparkle, Anthro, Gore, Screwball, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other
Length: 20288

Twilight commits a magical taboo.

Celestia was right; Twilight still had so much to learn. After dealing with horrors and terrors on a nearly weekly basis, she begins to fear for the lives of her friends, and starts her search for the ultimate safeguard. The power to reverse death itself.

Now all she needs is a subject. The perfect subject. Twilight knows just how to make her.

Edited by: Grimm, Reader Review
Part of the Monsterverse
Interested in earning a free commission from me? Check this out.
Cover art by anarchy and edited by me.
Crossover with: ?????????
TAGS
Chapter 1: Description of dead bodies and a loving tribute to gorehounds, Twi going off the mental deep end
Chapter 2: Nudity and scenes of blood
Chapter 3: Kissy kissy
Chapter 4: Lesbians, kissing, fingering, breast play, suckling

Published 2016-10-10 17:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-10-27 02:15:50 UTC

Dead Dreams Don't Die

Dear Princess Celestia

Yes, I know you said I should stop using the honorific when writing personal letters, but it’s been so ingrained into me that without it, any letter feels incomplete. I’ve always been a little anxious if I don’t follow my daily routines. In my early days back when the library still stood, I had a checklist of everything from waking up to walking out the door. And I mean everything. Where I put my toothbrush, the best cup for morning coffee, even what I was going to lay out for suggested reading the following week.

Routines work, so no need to fix what’s not broken, after all. I appreciate you seeing me as an equal in the eyes of the law along with just seeing me as nothing more than a regular pony when we’re together. I know that you are frowning at my insistence, but it’s what I’m comfortable with. I understand that doing so might make you uncomfortable, so how about we sit down and talk about it next time I stop by Canterlot?

Boy, I really lost track of where this letter was going real fast. This is why it’s good to have Spike help me draft them. I tend to ramble too easily.

Anyway, the purpose of this letter. I’m afraid this one has a more philosophical note to it. I know we’ve had some philosophical discussions in the past, and sometimes even Princess Luna partakes in the discourse. Back when I was a filly in Canterlot castle, I was one to want little. I didn’t care for friends. It wasn’t out of some disregard for social interaction; I was fully comfortable just being on my own. One of my favorite pastimes was to sit by the window during a snowstorm and read.

Now that I have several friends across town, I can see their use in more than just a utilitarian sense like I did as a child. Fun is no longer just sitting in the quiet. I love my friends. Sure, there are many days where I pass on picnics or outings to stay indoors by myself, but it’s become the better of two options rather than the only option. Pinkie’s love, AJ’s sense of family, Fluttershy’s compassion. Now that I have things like that, I don’t want to give any of that up.

And so we come to the crux of the problem. I don’t want to give up what I have here. I don’t mean in a “I don’t want to move out of Ponyville” sense, I mean I like what’s here and I never want to let it go. In a way, I blame the Nightmare Moon incident (If you ever read this Princess Luna, I bear you no ill will in saying that). The six of us did what we had to out of a sense of camaraderie and fearful self preservation. Then came Discord, then the Changelings, Sombra, etcetera. Nightmare Moon inoculated me against feeling that fearful sense of death every time it happened thereafter.

It’s been on my mind more and more with each passing month. Once, I awoke from a dream where I was in Ponyville completely as is, but my friends were gone and absolutely no one remembered them but me. I’ve had many adventures and have even saved the world a fair few times. I’ve grown up enough to understand that much of what we’ve gone through was only successful with a healthy injection of luck every now and then.

We’ve been lucky. By the powers, I’m grateful for what I have, but I am fearful of the time where fate won’t be so kind. I’m reminded of a thief’s prayer: “Never question good luck, only pray it never runs out.”

Who knew I’d start having a midlife crisis at age 28? I suppose I’ve seen and done more things than ponies twice my age, or even Daring Do. Make no mistake, I’m still happy here in Ponyville, but these thoughts have been fermenting in the back of my mind. I admit, I’ve been afraid of what could happen. I can help my friends through so much, and magic is good for many things, but no pony can cheat death yet. That fear I felt back during the Summer Sun Celebration is different now. I’m not afraid for my own life, but I desperately fear what my life would become should I lose my friends.

Perhaps it is needless worrying. In all likelihood it is and I’m spouting nonsense fears like a foal afraid of thunderstorms. Death is inevitable, I know, but I’ve never had to face it. I’ve had losses, but never defeat.

Regardless, I believe I should cease before too much worrying makes me gray prematurely. I’m waiting on Spike for more inkwells anyway. At your earliest convenience, however, could we have a chat during my next visit to Canterlot?

Yours Sincerely,

Twilight Sparkle

The letter had been in the back of Twilight’s desk for close to a week. The forewarning was well-earned, and Spike’s input would have been invaluable making it more coherent. She shuddered at the thought. Spike was close to a brother to her, but despite their relationship, the contents of the letter struck a little too close to home. Spike knew her likes, dislikes, interests, secrets, favorite foods, embarrassing insecurities, and had even caught her in a rather compromising position late one night with the contents of the box under her bed. However, there were still some thoughts and feelings that she held close to the chest.

No matter. Spike likely knew everything the letter said about her without even seeing it. He knew what the pair of them were doing tonight.

Twilight shook her head. Those thoughts were for later. She carefully returned the letter to her desk, locked it, and left her office for her castle library.

Twilight liked to peruse her bookshelves to kill time. She knew the placement of every tome, their every contents down to the last word. She knew where to go today. Behind the history section, around the reference books, and straight into biology. She thumbed through the books and academic articles, each and every one devoid of dust from Twilight’s recent and active use.

Harnessing Electric Control by Quick Pen

Canterlot City’s Journal of Internal Medicine by Helios

Canterlot Journal of Pony Physiology by Mythic Star

Seven Sanctums by Poetic Prose

Migration and nutritional status of orphaned schoolchildren by Orchid Heart

Zebrican Brain Mapping by Arid Novel

Psychological stress and the pony immune system by Mythic Star

She picked out Arid Novel’s book. The spine had been worn with much use and opened to a page at the start of the third chapter. Words. Words that she had read many times before and could recite them in her sleep. According to Spike, she had.

“Across all races, the brain is one of the most fragile. Lack of oxygen or blood flow may cause damage to living tissue after one minute of deprivation. Cell death occurs between three to six minutes of inadequate blood flow, and are considered nonviable in all fields of medical science after twelve minutes. There are rare cases where the body’s metabolism has been slowed, such as acute hypothermia, and have been revived close to an hour after a lack of oxygen. The effectiveness of such a method is untested and unproven due to the ethical implications of testing extreme cold on the body.”

Twilight heard a knock upon the library door. She returned the book.

“Come in!”

Despite his size, Spike was quiet. He was short and stubby for a dragon, and even carried a little bit of pudge to him, but now he even rivaled her in terms of height. His amethyst hide had hardened into beautiful scales. The only downside to his growth was that he had to consistently file down his spines and claws. Twilight’s own bookish, pudgy body had finally developed some curves. Did she get eyes from stallions because they saw the implications of her wings and horn, or that she finally, as Rainbow Dash crudely explained, “had something to grab onto”?

No matter. Bothersome thoughts. There was work to be done.

“Everything’s ready,” Spike said with a hiss. Twilight wasn’t sure why he was more quiet than in his youth. His voice had taken on a lovely baritone now that he’d matured some, yet the formally outgoing and friendly drake spoke with a calm and concise etiquette. Larger size, deeper voice, a face full of fangs. Well, Ponyville was a superstitious town and ponies were skittish by nature. Perhaps a subconscious observance of fear induced a psychosomatic response that resulted in a quieter voice.

Rats. Distracted again.

Observations and experiments for another time. She filed away a reminder to ask him about it later.

“Good.”

She got up. Better get it over with. Spike followed her into her office where she reopened the desk draw and removed the parchment she’d just read. Before she could change her mind, she rolled it tight, tied it with a ribbon, and reached for the candle. Her seal was her own cutie mark. Rather unoriginal, but Twilight had no need for extravagance. She poured some wax and pressed her seal tight as it dried.

“Celestia?”

“Indeed.”

She handed it over. Spike took it and with a quick breath of emerald flames, the letter vanished. He set down the rucksack he had slung over his shoulders and pulled out the contents one by one. Inkwells, extra parchment, empty vials, book binding tape, and a small arsenal of goodies that would need to be unpacked in the basement.

“Spike, time for a log.”

Quill and parchment were in his hands before she finished her sentence. He smirked.

“Oh, wipe that look off your face.”

“Can’t help that I know you better than you know yourself, Twi.”

“Don’t make me start writing everything on my own.”

“We both know my penmanship is better.”

Well, he’d got her there.

“Quit your lip,” she pouted, “and write.”

Twilight cleared her throat.

“October first, twenty-one hundred hours. Spike and I are about to take the next step in my experiments. I admit my heart’s been beating heavy with anticipation and anxiety. So much has been building up to these next few hours. So much research and patience. This may very well be my masterpiece, my magnum opus. I have all the necessary research material, all of the biological texts and surgical equipment prepared. The spellcraft is in place and my reagents in proper doses. I am as ready as I will ever be.

“My experiments on animal carcasses have been promising, but such data can only show me so much. None of it will take into account the sheer complexity of a brain capable of sapient thought. For those rare cases that will, they cannot compensate for the inherent magic that resides in ponies. After all, I am not working my way up to barnyard fowl or bovine capable of carrying a conversation. No, I have my eyes on a larger prize.

“It is times like these that I wish Ponyville championed medical science like Canterlot. I could then have easy access to the subjects I require. There are none here in Ponyville, not even donations to medical advancement due to the town’s small size, but neither can I move my lab to Canterlot without attracting unwanted attention.”

At this, Twilight paused. Spike dutifully took the time to finish what he had yet to write. He had phenomenal recall.

“I love Celestia dearly. Like a mother. I do not think she will approve of what I have done, or what I am about to do. It was and still is my solemn word to do no harm to a living soul even if my experiments end in total failure. I do this for the greater good. I do this so loved ones don’t endlessly suffer for a mistake that occurred because fate dealt a poor hand one day. I do it to stop dread, the pain of loss.”

Twilight’s foot was bouncing. A sign of restlessness. Good. Better than reservation.

“Best case? Before the night is over, I will do what none before me has done before. I will cheat death.”

Twilight felt the bile rise in her throat. Distasteful task. Disgusting. Almost sacrilegious.

Necessary.

Spike had volunteered to go alone tonight, bless his soul. If Spike got caught, the situation would be bad, but salvageable. If it was her face on the morning paper, everything she had built, even her work that had nothing to do with her current project, would vanish like smoke on a windy day. This was something she needed to do.

Spike had unlocked the mortuary window earlier that day. Bigger though he was, he slipped inside first and held out a hand. Twilight grasped it and slid into Spike’s arms. Each of them wore clothes of a soft, dark blue to blend into Luna’s bright moonlight. They needed to carry Twilight’s new test subject across town, and if by chance an insomniac caught them on their roundabout trek back to the castle, at least they might be able to cut their losses and hide. Twilight’s wings were bound close to her back and under a layer of clothes. Her horn was impossible to hide, but her wings were not. There was only one alicorn in town, so if they were seen, it wasn’t hard to guess the identity of the mystery mare.

Setting her down, Spike closed the window and locked it. They wouldn’t be exiting through the window anyway.

He motioned Twilight forward. Even though no one was supposed to be in the building, Twilight did her best to keep her breathing level and quiet. Spike was careful, and very good at following orders. He knew where to go. That did nothing to alleviate the tension in the back of her neck that demanded she fidget and stretch her wings.

Spike lead them through doors and doors until they met one that was locked. Spike tried the knob and it stubbornly refused them access.

Mors

Mortician

Twilight’s horn was alight for just a moment with lavendar energy before the lock clicked. Why bother locking the door when no one in their right mind would break into a mortuary? No break-ins meant low security, which meant cheap locks.

“And here I wanted to try out some bobby pins,” Spike whispered.

The pair of them slunk into the office. Spike’s long and sinuous tail slid a chair out of the way for her. It was a simple office. Papers stacked the simple desk, and an old, rusted shovel was mounted on the wall above a safe. Twilight licked her lips.

She almost jumped as she heard the loud, clanging iron directly behind her. Oh, no, they tripped a silent alarm on the window and the police were here to arrest them both. Twilight’s gut sank through the floor.

“They’re not in the safe, Twi.” Spike twirled an iron band around a finger, the two ancient, iron keys clinging together with every spin. Behind him was a cork board with several hooks. The only empty one was labeled “Cemetery Key”.

“Spike, scare me like that again, and I swear I will turn you into carpet.”

He shrugged.

“Sorry for the spook. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“There’s hardly room for jokes during a grave robbery.”

“Hey, I know my routine will knock them dead.”

Twilight could have flown over—even teleported over—but both would have been problems for carting her subject back to the lab. She couldn’t fly both Spike and a body over the stone walls. Teleporting into the cemetery wasn’t a problem, but she dared not risk having her magic clinging to her test subject and contaminating her plans for tonight. She still needed to cart a body back to the lab with Spike. It was a long way back to the castle with nothing but a snarky drake and a corpse to keep her company.

“It could be worse.”

“We could get caught?”

“It could be raining.”

She wanted to kill him. The occasional mirth helped bring some much-needed levity to a grim situation, yet her stomach was still trying to tie itself in knots. Ever the faithful assistant. Never had Spike strayed from her side.

This was for him as much as for her friends.

Spike had managed to stow away some equipment in advance. No one was thoughtless enough to vandalise or litter in the cemetery, so Mors wasn’t one to look for things that didn’t belong. Crisscrossed shovels buried in the brush under a tree, and a body bag filled with supplies was what their tools amounted to. She followed his lead, during her best to ignore his occasional ribbing.

It was the only grave with fresh soil. The tombstone itself was solid granite and clean, but Twilight did not look at it. Her nerves were already shaky. She didn’t need a reason to stop when they were already waist deep.

They could always just come back another night—no. They couldn’t. Spike must have saw the look on her face.

“Wanna back out?”

She shook her head. Her shovel was the first to pierce the dirt.

The basement of the castle was Twilight’s own personal laboratory. She could have had the pick of the litter with how much more space the castle had over the library, but it was what she was familiar with, and so it remained. Spike had already come back after returning the keys. Both were already adorned in sterile gowns.

Twilight wouldn’t likely need them, but pony diagrams of pony musculature, skeletal, and nervous systems had been taped to the walls for reference material. To the left were her alchemical stands. A Lion’s Blood potion already concocted for weakened muscle control had been prepared ahead of time, as well as all the reagents she’d need for a quick for a few quick drafts of select elixirs.

To the right was a table full of surgical materials. Jars full of earth pony organs of identical bloodtype, all preserved in a Chilltouch draft lines the table in an orderly line. Scalpels were assorted by size and then function. Seven types of forceps, a bone cutter, rib splitter, a thread holder, retractor, scissors; she had everything she’d need and more. A freezer was tucked at the end of the table, its steady hum filling the air.

Towards the north wall was her spellcraft. Ironroot, silver dust, manticore gallbladder, and tatzlwurm blood all lay in assorted, color-coded dishes. She would be doing the bulk of that work tonight.

At the center of it all was a surgical table. An old stallion dressed in his sunday best lay across it. He had a chestnut mane stained with gray. His body had the slight smell of must and dirt, along with the familiar scent of formaldehyde. He was older than Twilight would have liked, but they weren’t flush with options.

“Smells like pickles,” Spike’s voice was muffled behind his face mask.

“That’s the formaldehyde.”

“Why does formaldehyde smell like pickles?”

“...I really don’t know.” That was never something she asked in Advanced Biology class.

Spike snapped on his own specially modified surgical gloves. Normal latex or rubber gloves wouldn’t be much use on clawed hands, filed or not.

“Ready when you are, professor.”

Huh. Professor Twilight. It had a nice ring to it. Twilight pulled on her own gloves and put up her mask. It was time to get to work.

Before anything, she had to reverse the effects of Mors’ embalming. To do that, her willing subject needed to be stripped of his funeral attire. She carefully undid the buttons on his suit while Spike performed the herculean task of removing his pants and undergarments. Each piece was bagged and stored in a cabinet. There he lay, cold and dead to the world.

Heh. “Dead”.

Oh no, she was turning into Spike.

Deep breaths. The hard part was over. The pair of them acquired their body, the gravesite was carefully restored so Mors wouldn’t notice, and no pony was the wiser. The just had the easy part, the gross part, and the uncertain part left.

With clothes soaked in lukewarm water, the pair washed the cadaver from head to foot.

“Aspirator.”

Her ultimate plan, to restore the dead to life, had two phases. Restoring the body was the easier of the two. Reversing death... well, this was what trial runs were for. Even if everything worked perfectly, if her mixture of witchcraft and science pulled through, no pony could live with an embalmed body. Twilight used the aspirator to remove what chemicals she could. The body needed to be restored into perfect working order, down to the last organ. An hour passed. Then another. The pair of them worked together with Twilight guiding both sets of hands as needed.

“Start up the pump.”

Embalming fluid, along with whatever disgusting tidbits they removed from the body, were placed in a large jar. The smell was ungodly, and Twilight took a few minutes to rub some frankincense under her nose. The worst part was pumping out the veins of fluid, an even worse sort of smell that left Twilight dry heaving twice.

Twilight walked to the fridge and removed pint after pint of blood. The most important piece of the night was in a little case directly behind the last pack. Eight vials of a glowing green fluid beckoned her. It was time. They were calling to her.

She removed one and placed it on the table next to her blood supply. Given the time it was taking, putrefaction was a concern. Yet a body still needed blood. Spike’s hands were as deft as any surgeon and he found the femoral vein on the first try. He began cycling the body with blood. Bag after bag was pumped into the corpse.

Spike reached for the glowing vial, needle in hand.

“No.”

Spike blinked.

“I’ll do it.”

He nodded and handed both to Twilight. This was it. The final stage of her work.

“Thirty CCs of reagent,” she told herself. That was her guess, anyway. The needle was slowly filling with the liquid. Pulling it off the cap, Spike held the head up to give her the body’s spine. “Injecting into the brain now.”

The reagent disappeared little by little. Spike immediately put down the corpse’s head and stepped back as Twilight hopped towards her reagent table and mixed ingredients. This was for herself. It didn’t matter what the taste was. Now they were on a clock.

Finishing off the concoction, Twilight’s horn began to vibrate with the same lavendar light as earlier that night. A dash of lightning for the nerves, water for the organs, and wind for the lungs. Her thaumaturgical craft vibrated in the air. The body shook as the nerves were shocked into life. Smells, sights, and sounds all passed her by, but Twilight’s mind was on weaving her spells. She was blind, deaf, and mute to the world, unable to respond to the most basic stimuli. This was magic of the highest caliber, and as black as the gates of hell.

The image of her lab vanished and was replaced with the lingering threads of power circling the air. It wasn’t just a single spell that she needed to craft, but layers on layers that interlocked and worked in perfect harmony. Healing magic alone was dangerous due to the wrong bit of flesh moving being unimaginably torturous. Light, fire, and everything in between swam in her vision.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Twilight blinked. She was on the floor with the masked face of Spike looking down at her. He held up three clawed fingers, which he changed to two, then four, back to three, then five.

“How about me?” She held up only one.

“You’re cured.”

He held a hand and lifted her to her shaky legs. The body hadn’t moved.

“You’ve been out for about two minutes,” Spike said.

“Too long.”

“I’ve been watching. No signs of movement, respiration, heartbeat, anything.”

Twilight sighed. Then it was a waiting game.

Three minutes.

This was it. The calm before the storm.

Four minutes.

All she needed to do was wait. It was out of her hands now.

Five minutes.

But this was taking a while.

Six minutes.

More reagent next time?

Seven min—

His hand moved. Both Spike and she froze. Another twitch. No outwards stimuli, not even light across the optic nerve. This was completely independant. She didn’t move. This was it.

“It’s alive... It’s alive!”

He sat up and screamed.

The former corpse’s skin was flush with fresh blood in his veins. He turned to Twilight. She didn’t even have time to react as the reanimated body flung itself off the table and wrapped a pair of meaty hands around her throat. She saw stars as her head was bashed into a table and the world flashed white. Blood pooled around her subject’s mouth. Not once did he stop screaming in her face, just an endless barrage of noise. The fingers tightened on her neck. She tried desperately to breath, but nothing came. Even her held breath had nowhere to escape.

Her face was coated in a wave of red fluid and the fingers released themselves. Twilight turned away and started coughing, never more thankful to get a taste of sweet, wonderful oxygen than she was now. Something thumped to the floor. She turned towards the pony that she had given life and scrambled away, slipping on a patch of blood.

Spike held the stallion by the throat, while his other hand had plunged through his chest so hard, Twilight saw his claws poking through the other side. The once dead pony was now dead again, a gaping hole in his chest dripping fresh blood. Spike removed his arm from the pony’s chest. Viscera and droplets of blood clung to his arm, the vibrant scales now stained crimson. Blood began to pool on the clean floor.

Twilight couldn’t stop herself. She started snickering. Giggling. Soon she was openly laughing in between coughs caused by her damaged throat. Why was she laughing? Her reanimation project failed, at least the first trial run did. They’d both robbed a grave. She’d brought the dead back to life, if that could be called life. It didn’t matter. She had to laugh.

And Spike, bless his soul, still wouldn’t shut the hell up.

“Well that didn’t work.”

Author's Note

I have a Patreon now that I am on the run from the king. He didn't approve of me climbing to the princess' bedroom.

I took these two bits from Charon.

Twilight knew it was a long shot. She had a lingering hope that the procedure would have worked as expected, and in a way it did. She’d successfully reanimated a corpse, just not in the way she wanted. Was it considered self defense when the victim was dead once before? Did reanimated bodies count as the living in the eyes of the law? Huh.

She and Spike had cleaned up the mess in the basement. Spike offered to quietly dispose of the body, but it was a perfect opportunity for further experimentation. At the very least it might give her enough data to properly modify the next procedure. It wasn’t smart to conduct an autopsy while deep in the night and operating on little sleep, but the more the corpse decayed, the less viable her data would be. It would be an autopsy this time around, and a fresh array of tools and clothes for both.

Twilight unlocked the door to the basement, a fresh pot of coffee in her other hand. She was normally a tea pony, but she needed something high enough in caffeine to make it through the night.

“Now you need to resterilize,” Spike said.

“I know, but I’m not going to be doing anything correctly without a pick-me-up.” She set the pot down and filled an already cleaned cup with a straw. Sterilizing took another ten minutes and a draft of coffee. Spike had put the body back on the table, wiped up the little dribble of blood still coming from the wound, and waited for her to begin.

“Alright... Cause of death?”

“Me.”

She snorted. “Heh heh, prior to embalming and an unfortunate encounter with a dragon.”

“Renal failure.”

“Cancer?”

“Kinda. Drank two gallons of water every day for the last twenty years because he was afraid of stomach cancer.”

“Huh. While there is a correlation between magnesium in hard water and lower risk of gastric cancer, that’s not a preventative measure.”

“Hey, the cause was simple. I didn’t say it made sense.”

Given the draconic trauma, Twilight’s primary concern was the state of the vital organs. Some incisions and a rib spreader later, they cracked open his rib cage.

“Extensive trauma to the left lung and both heart ventricular cavities. Subject expired in seconds. Expected.”

Twilight started coughing. Spike took the initiative and wiped his glove hand on the table. A few droplets of bright red blood clung to his hands and he smeared it between two fingers.

“We’ve got some pretty good coloration here. Bright red equals good oxygenation. Despite the hole I’m pretty sure shouldn’t be there, vascular system was working up to scratch. Musta rolled high with his strength and dex stats ‘cause rigor mortis didn’t mean all that much when he jumped off the table. Coupled with the esteemed professor’s bruised throat, it shows some decent muscle control and fine motor skills after reanimation. Good blood flow to extremities.”

She hadn’t even thought about rigor mortis. “Good c-catch,” she coughed.

He continued, “Extreme mania upon awakening. All the causes I know are mental. Nervous system problem?”

“I concur.” Twilight couldn’t help but feel a small swelling of pride in his deductions.

Spike was browsing the remaining internal organs. “Liver’s good, but kinda gray. Kidneys are shot to shit.”

“Language, Spike.”

“Spleen, gallbladder, stomach, intestines. All fine considering how long we had him on the table. Hard to say what should or shouldn’t be damaged due to the short reanimation time, or whatever snafu we made to make him lose his mind.”

“It was my mistake, Spike, not yours.”

“Ours. I’m in this with ya, Twi.”

His eyes demanded no objection. She nodded her thanks.

“We also have to consider that the procedure is fundamentally flawed from the start.”

He shook his head. “Consider it at least a partial success. Got up and went for you even if he didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe not sapient, yeah, but sure shows some thought, even if he’s just like a wild dog going after a piece of meat.”

Did he just call her a piece of meat?

“Time to crack him open?” Spike took a slug of coffee.

“Find the vibrating saw. And give me that.”

Spike was the one to split open the skull. She’d been coughing on and off and didn’t trust herself with a saw of any kind. A little aerosol spray stained his apron as he cut around the head. Twilight was carefully waiting as he removed the skull and placed her hand inside to hold the brain in place.

She jumped as the liquefied remains dripped through her fingers. What hadn’t putrefied into a disgusting mess was ridden with tumorous growths.

Spike looked down. “Well, there’s your problem.”

There was an ornate silver and glass chandelier in Twilight’s office, although she rarely used it. The desk lamp alone was always enough It reminded her of the library, of her old study in Canterlot. Something about a single light at her desk just felt homey.

“Spike?”

He already had parchment in hand.

“October fourth, zero nine thirty hours. The first trial run was a failure. Granted, achieving a successful reanimation had fantastically low first time odds to begin with, but I couldn’t foresee the violent reaction Spike and I would end up seeing. I suppose I should treat my draconic companion to a special something in the future.”

Spike’s forked tongue darted from his smiling lips.

“Each bodily system, from the vascular, to the muscular, to the respiratory system, works as expected and within acceptable guidelines. Unfortunately, our subject was confirmed alive for less than one minute, so there is a recognizable possibility that it would not remain so. I do not expect that outcome to be true. A full autopsy showed all bodily organs were regenerating enough to sustain life before termination. This is easily explained. These systems are simple, and it starts with adequate blood supply. Blood diffuses oxygen and nutrients, and each system’s limits and secrets have been mapped out long before my time. All except one.

“We have hydroelectric dams, blimps to carry ponies into the skies, and steam trains capable of carrying more cargo than a hundred drawn carts. To this very day, the brain is as complex and mysterious as it was a century ago. Every answer only conjures more questions. My reagent gives the brain renewed life, my spellcraft gives the body the spark to begin again. But it is not the body that failed, but the mind. Our first subject awoke screaming and violently psychotic; he was only stopped by Spike’s timely assistance.”

Twilight sighed. There were quite a few unknowns, and none of them could be answered so readily.

“If I could theorize what went wrong, my reagent dosage was much too large and, coupled with fresh nutrients crossing the blood-brain barrier, it hyperstimulated the brain. The parts that liquified were dedicated to higher brain functions. The brain stem was perfectly intact, thus why involuntary systems remained functional. The cerebrum suffered massive damage. Less so with the cerebellum, but there was noticeable impairment. Additionally, it is quite possible that the growths we discovered on the parts of the brain that had not liquified were already there, and my reagent boosted their growth at a logarithmic rate.

“We shall see in time. I will need to lessen the dosage in further tests. I feel the need to alter the spell matrix in regards to the relationship between blood and the brain, but doing so might have unforeseen consequences. Let us tamper with one variable at a time. End log.”

Spike rolled up the parchment and labeled it for later. There was nothing more ungodly irritating than a catalog system that didn’t work.

“So the question is,” Twilight began, “what should be checked first? The possibility of a defective brain, or checking if the reagent had an improper dosage?”

Spike shrugged and sat on the floor.

“There’s a chair right there, Spike.”

“I’m good.”

“Fine. Any opinion?”

He scratched his chin with a claw. “Not really. The problem was neurological, we got that. If you’re talking about focusing on either the tumors or the reagent, I’d say try your hocus pocus potion first. Stretch goal is it’s going to be used on a bad brain eventually anyway. Might as well get it over with. You’re not even sure if the reagent made the tumors, or it it just egged on what was already there.”

Twilight’s ears drooped. “Yeah, but there was only one recent body buried in Ponyville cemetery. We’re not going to get another out of the blue unless we move the lab, which we can’t do.”

So close. So very close. She was tickling the power to stop death with her fingertips. Knowledge from ages ago, brought back with the viziers of old. Sleeping titans who were defeated long ago awaken and wreak untold destruction could be stopped when the heroes of yore rise from the grave. To give a family peace when they lost one too soon. To give a mother hope for her stillborn child.

Twilight remembered the weight of her body pressed into the shovel. Defilement, yes. Black magic, yes. Necromancy. Black mages were persecuted still, but she was so close. The body functions were there. She just needed to fix the mind.

Undead soldiers risen from battlefields, revenants, liches, grave robbery, and perverse sorcery There were countless reasons why the art was banned, but this was for the greater good.

“Well... there might be another way.”

Twilight perked up. “What?”

“The township doesn’t own the only graveyard. The hospital has a plot of land for life cases, drifters and strays, or those a little wonky in the head. We could give that a quick look.”

She’d been to the hospital enough. That was part of the reason she started her research in the first place. Huh. Why didn’t she think of that? Twilight leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Spike, I don’t tell you you’re brilliant nearly enough.”

The biggest problem was data. Medical histories, blood types, past surgeries or medications, genders, sexual promiscuity, innoculations, past diseases, mental health. All of it was needed to choose the best subject. All of it was covered under doctor-patient confidentiality and not in the public record. Even then, there was the issue of procurement.

“Remind me to install some straps on the table next time.”

“I already had them ordered, Spike.”

Research and intel was the easy part. The fun part. It was like a game, or one of Celestia’s old logic puzzles. Everything had a place, even if its place was only a red herring. In order to put together the pieces, she first had to exploit one of Spike’s new skills: breaking and entering. It was not an easy task. Whereas the cemetery had no security at all, the Ponyville hospital had plenty. Twilight had the money and resources necessary to do the job, but in the end, it would all come down to Spike’s ability to not get caught. It just so happened that sneaking around for Twilight’s hidden gem stashes when he was still a juvenile had come in handy. It wasn’t even midnight when he returned.

“I don’t like this.” Twilight was flicking through the copied documents. Each deceased pony was assorted by blood type, and then further assorted by medical conditions. They had plenty to choose from, but none that would be whole, intact bodies.

“We don’t have any options, Twi,” Spike said quietly. His tail was flicking back and forth as he scanned each file. “The most important part is getting an intact nervous system.”

That was easy enough. There were several, but the hospital rarely had funds to spring for the full costs of funerals. No embalming, no caskets. She’d have to do a reverse vivisection and splice together bodies with matching genetic material and immunities. Not impossible, but it certainly complicated things.

“I think these two will be out best bet.” Spike handed her two sets of medical records.

“Screw Loose... and Screwball.” Any relation?

“None. Screw Loose was a life case and mother died in childbirth. Screwball just kinda appeared one day.”

Both female, O positive blood types, zero genetic abnormalities, minimal diseases. Screwball was non vocal, but Screw Loose wasn’t.

Well, it was worth a shot.

Twilight had once read a book about a pony physician that had set up shop on an island flush with wildlife and people. The mid-book twist was that the pony was an expert vivisectionist that had turned animals into ponies. The narrator saw ponies with boar tusks and cloven hooves, a lion’s mane and fangs, and a prehensile monkey’s tail rather than a pony’s own natural tail.

No pony was that skilled. Twilight was bright, even she admitted that, but even she lacked the ability to completely change a pony’s species with surgery alone. Splicing skin and organs together into one body however? It was almost like organ donation.

‘If only mom could see me now...’ Even Twilight was sure if she was wistful or lamenting.

Screw Loose’s body was the base, as she had the intact nervous system. What organs that weren’t salvageable were removed from Screwball, including skin grafts. By eleven at night, Screw Loose’s body was a patchwork of blues and pinks. Even Twilight had to admit her work was superb. She ran a gloved hand across her bare arm. Smooth skin with no dermal damage. Wonderful.

“She’s kinda cute for a stiff.”

Twilight raised an eyebrow at Spike. True, Screw Loose wasn’t bad to look at, especially taking into account her generously endowed chest. No organs of viscera on display, currently not in a frothing rage, and the patches of her skin were cleanly stitched together. She still looked like a patchwork pony, but a pony nevertheless.

“I’m... not sure how to respond to that.”

Spike opened his mouth, then closed it. “Uhhhh... Well, me either, I guess. She is, though.”

“...Alright, let’s just ignore that comment and continue.”

Everything was ready. Her reagent called to her once more. It was the product of five years of nonstop research and experimentation, along with a healthy dose of reverse engineering many spells and alchemical solutions from the restricted copies of Starswirl’s work. Science and sorcery, all in a glowing green package.

“No signs of cerebral damage or malignant growths.” She pulled the very same jar of reagent out of the fridge along with a syringe. “Dosage reduced to fifteen CCs.”

“That stuff looks like it could melt a hole in the floor,” Spike mumbled from behind his face mask as he strapped Screw Loose to the table.

“I have to use a glass syringe because it eats through plastic, if that’s any consolation.”

Spike lifted her subject’s head. It was time for the final touches, the last lap. She brushed Screw Loose’s lengthy hair to the side in order to get the proper angle and plunged the needle directly into the amalgamate woman’s head.

Both retreated. Spike could do nothing else now. Twilight consumed her elixir and became blinded to the world once again. It was a strange sensation, losing all the senses that made her life worth living.It was a resolute piece of her life.

No matter. Twilight brushed the errant thought aside and continued weaving her necromantic spells. They alone did not call beyond the grave; her reagent was a critical piece of the process. Despite that, her spellcraft helped give life to the lifeless. There was no mistaking what she was doing as the lightning arced from her fingertips. She could almost see the power shocking the muscles and mind into life.

Before Twilight knew it, she was looking at Spike again. “Three, now help me up.”

“You were out one minute and forty two seconds. A new record.” He reached out a hand and pulled her to her feet. Twilight’s knees buckled, but held.

She was exhausted. Truly tired to her bones. Was the first revival this draining? All she could remember about the post-procedure was waiting and then the attack. Spike pulled up a chair so she could sit and checked the clock.

“Four minutes.”

Another waiting game. Twilight tapped her fingers against her knee. Five minutes. Six.

Seven, eight, nine, and ten.

“It’s taking too long.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Spike, look,” Twilight brushes a finger across Screw Loose’s cheek. The skin whitened and then took on a slight rosy tinge. “My spell worked fine, but the brain’s not responding. It’d only be a matter of time until brain death. Again.”

“But—”

“I’m upping the dosage another five CCs.” She filed the syringe before he had time to protest. “Lift her head.”

Spike was going to argue, but a sharp look cut him off. His eyes were on her as he carefully cradled Screw Loose’s skull.

The reaction was immediate and visceral. The patchwork pony’s hands clenched and her lungs gasped for air that it hadn’t tasted in almost a year. Her hands and feet were velcro strapped the bed, with additional leather straps holding her chest and knees to the cold table. Screw Loose fought her bindings but could not break free from the precautionary measure. Whereas the stallion was violent, hers was only panicked and uncontrolled.

Her chest heaved as she looked about and saw the pair of them. She opened her mouth, gasping for breath, but no words came forth.

Twilight leaned down. One eye was beady and vividly violet, the other large and purple. Beautiful. Twilight moved to the left. Those eyes followed her.

“Welcome back.”

Twilight watched the mare as she slept peacefully. She’d given her a mild sedative soon after revival. Data as early as possible was preferable, but this was no mere science experiment. This was life from the lifeless. Spike was checking her vitals, but the patchwork mare needed sleep.

She’d done it. Death had reaped his final reward.

Spike undid the belt cuff and walked to Twilight’s chair on the other side of the room. Twilight had three bedrooms for herself in the castle. The first was her normal but stately room. The other two were a small cot hidden away in her library, and a repurposed room in the basement. She always liked being able to get up and get back to work on a moment’s notice. Given that the newly living Screw Loose/Screwball hybrid needed a place to rest that was out of the public eye, her basement bedroom was the best option.

“Well, vitals are doing okay. Heartbeat is steady, O2 sat’s fine, respiration, all pretty good. Her BP’s low, though. Wouldn’t mind checking blood glucose while we’re at it, either.”

Twilight smiled at the drake. “Spike, have you ever thought about going to medical school?”

“Nope. After all the garbage that goes on in Ponyville on a weekly basis, I’d be bored out of my mind in any school.”

“Well, it’s something to think about. I’d gladly throw my name around or recommend you to a few professors.”

He returned her smile, only his was full of dagger-like protrusions. “Who will write your letters?”

“Spike, I’m not a complete invalid.”

“Does that mean partial invalid?”

She punched him in the arm. Twilight’s eyes returned to the sleeping mare and recalled her dual histories. Screwball suddenly appeared during Discord’s first appearance. She was quickly taken in by the hospital and kept there permanently until her death last year; she was nonvocal during her entire stay until she just simply died in the night. Screw Loose was taken in due to foalhood trauma and her condition devolved over time into extreme schizophrenia. Whereas the former’s heart gave out with the passage of time, mere happenstance killed off the latter. An accidental cut that became septic, and then full on blood poisoning.

“What do you suppose we should call her?” Spike asked.

“Screw Loose.”

“Do you think there’s a little of Screwball in that noggin?”

“Impossible. Only Screw Loose’s brain was used. One brain, one set of memories.”

“Yeah. Still...”

“Speak your mind, Spike.”

His scraped his nails across the floor, a sound that made her grit her teeth.

“Does she know she’s Screw Loose?”

She sighed.

“We’ll wait and see.”

“October fifteenth, zero ten hundred hours. Success! It’s been almost a full twelve hours since reanimation, and our subject’s still going on strong. We’ve set up a banana bag for fluid intake, but she’ll need solid foods before long. My colleague Spike and I are about to speak with her for the first time since she’s taken breath. There’s just so much to say and do, so much to learn! Ponies have the possibility to live lifetimes now! Should another academic come across these notes, let it be known that I would have never gotten this far without Spike. This will be a short log, but i cannot wait for those to come. End log.”

Twilight set down her quill. Spike was the one writing, but having something in hand helped her focus her thoughts.

“Ready?”

Spike was finishing up the log. “Never... gotten... this far without... the magnificent and illustrious... Spike.” He rolled up the scroll and passed it to her.

“If I go through past logs, am I going to find any editorials?”

“Maybe a few.”

The pair of them walked to the old bedroom, Twilight with a little skip in her step. Screw Loose was still sleeping peacefully, but moved when Spike quietly shut the door behind them. Her bedroom wasn’t all that large and just served the purpose of giving Twilight a place to crash. All it had for amenities was a cheap bed, a sturdy desk, and a couple of bookshelves holding material relating to everything from natural sciences to philosophy.

Screw Loose was wearing a pair of pants much too large and a shirt much too small. Spike had found an old belt to help keep her dressed, but her large chest would stretch even the largest dresses and skirts Twilight owned.

Twilight saw Screw Loose fidget as she approached. She put a hand on the stitched up shoulder. Warm to the touch. Excellent.

“Hello there,” Twilight said with kindness and a shake. Screw Loose started and blinked blearily.

Twilight got her first good look at the mare. Screw Loose had a light blue skin tone, whereas Screwball was of a light pink. Much of Screw Loose’s skin wasn’t viable dermal protection, so Twilight grafted what she could of Screwball onto her. It gave her a patched up appearance and she still bore the thread holding the grafts in place. She also bore a significant number of Screwball’s organs, the most notable of which was one of her eyes. Her right was Screw Loose’s original violet, and the other Screwball’s fuchsia.

She snapped away from Twilight’s hand and backed up until she pressed against the wall. Screw Loose opened her mouth to speak but nothing came.

“Easy, easy,” Twilight squatted down and Spike followed suit. “You’ve been through a lot.” More than anypony had ever gone through. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

Screw Loose’s mouth opened once again, but said nothing. A pink hand went to her breast. She seemed surprised by her own action and began looking at both palms. After a moment’s observation, as if she forgot she had company, her eyes returned to Spike and Twilight.

‘She’s nonvocal,’ Twilight noted. ‘She shouldn’t have speech aphasia. The frontal lobe was fine.’

She kneeled and held a hand to her chest. “Twilight Sparkle.” She put her hand on Spike’s shoulder. “Spike.”

Screw Loose looked back and forth between them. She put a hand to her own chest and prepared to speak, but expectedly issued only silence. A minute passed before she inched her way forward.

“Do you remember your name?” Twilight asked slowly. Screw Loose flinched, opened her mouth, then closed it. Another minute passed before Screw Loose started creeping forward. She reached out a hand. Twilight did the same, grateful that they were making some sort of headway.

Something that vanished in a puff of smoke when Screw Loose started running her hand through her feathers. She ran a hand through the feathers once, then twice, a look of whimsical wonder on her face. She looked over her own shoulder as if to check if she had feathers. She leaned forward a little more, reaching for Twilight’s wings.

Twilight saw the look of alarm just a hair before Screw Loose slipped and tumbled off the bed. The two of them fell in a heap and flailing limbs as Screw Loose panicked and grabbed onto Twilight, only to bring her to the ground with her.

“Ow...” Twilight moaned. Spike just chuckled to himself. “You could have done something.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as funny.”

Screw Loose rubbed her head and got to her knees. She blinked and cocked her head, and, now that she was almost in Twilight’s lap, began running a hand on Twilight’s wing in wonder.

“Screw Loose?”

Screw Loose looked at her and tilted her head. Good. At least she knew her own name even if she couldn’t speak.

Wait. Did she know her own name, or was she just responding to Twilight’s voice? She’d have to test that out. Right now, figuring out why she couldn’t speak seemed more pertinent.

“Spike, can you get a flashlight?” He wordlessly got up and left the room. “Alright, patchwork pony, I’m going to need you to follow my finger.”

Twilight held up a finger. Screw Loose looked at her own hand and held up a finger.

“No, I need you to watch my finger as I move it.”

Twilight pointed towards her heterochromatic eyes, and then to her own finger. She started moving it from side to side. Screw Loose ignored the implied request to watch her finger move and instead moved her own finger. Twilight facepalmed, another act Screw Loose mimicked much to her chagrin. Spike can back carrying a pocket flashlight and handed it to Twilight.

“Alright,” she said. Twilight turned it on and shined it at Screw Loose’s eyes. Violet and fuchsia blinked back at her. “Dilatations are fine.”

“Hmm?” Spike asked.

“Checking for blood clots. Speech aphasia is a common result of a stroke and you can sometimes tell by the pupil.”

Twilight’s explanation was cut off by Spike’s titanic belch. She leaned away in disgust before she saw the emerald flames slithering from his open maw. In a flash of dragonflame, a single scroll stamped with Celestia’s personal seal fell into his hands.

“Haaaah!” Screw Loose’s cry of delight was enough to make a smile tug Twilight’s lips. Of all things to break her silence, it was a vulgarity. The way she looked at Spike, smile wide and hands clasped together, made her think of a foal first seeing presents on Hearth’s Warming Eve.

‘At least we know her voice works.’

“Here.” Spike handed her the letter. “I’ll keep princess entertained while you see what’s up.”

Well, her attention was entirely focused on him. He sat down next to her and she clapped once. “Wanna see a magic trick?”

Twilight left Screw Loose in his more than capable claws. Crude, childish humor the sudden letter may have produced, at least she was bonding with someone now. Twiligh got up and walked back into the lab where Screw Loose had been revived the previous night.

Did something go wrong with the procedure? She had to have gotten it right, but Screw Loose couldn’t speak correctly. Screw Loose wasn’t in the best mental health when she died, but she was capable of carrying on a conversation. She could speak, and recognize people and words.

Perhaps... Yes, another means of expressionism instead. They could test her creativity, see if she could draw or write instead of speak. There was some colored pencils in storage somewhere. She’d have to ask Spike where they were now. Screw Loose was acting childlike. Start with a child’s tools and work all the way up.

So many questions, so much data to collect.

Sighing, she broke the seal on the scroll and unrolled it.

My dear Twilight,

I apologize for the tardiness of this letter. While I do ascribe the excuse partly to state business, the truth of the matter is I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. I am afraid you had caught me by quite the surprise. I’ve lived long enough that I have a response for nearly any inquiry, but this was one of the rare few that I chose to take my time to carefully word.

I do congratulate you in one sense. Death is not something to be feared, but embraced. I’m proud that you do not not suffer in that sense, but it is my understanding that you worry over the loss of loved ones. As contradictory as what I am about to say may feel, please take it to heart: that is good.

I don’t know how to love my subjects, friends, and family, and not feel the agony of loss. One comes with the other invariably in my experience. If you feel that ache, it means you have yet to fall so far you don’t know empathy, the difference from right and wrong. Death comes for us all. Not even I can stop death when he comes for me.

I have known ponies in the past who shied away from others until their hearts have turned to stone because they could not vanquish the constant fear of losing them. They would rather not make friends and avoid that pain rather than have them and risk suffering a tragic breakup or death. To them, pain holds more sway over pleasure.

Yet as I say that, I fully understand why they would make such a decision. I have seen soldiers with eyes of iron and hearts of ash. They know life can change and all company included may die in a single moment. For the long lived, we cannot help but retain the company and friendship of others. Age after age is a long time to live with one’s own thought. We need others to keep us in check, to keep us grounded if we stray from our path, to catch us if we fall. Some call it a necessity. Some call it survivor’s guilt.

I know what I am about to say may very well change your opinion of me. For better or worse, please hear me through to the end.

In olden times, my sister and I had each other until that night. Ageless need others, be it for companionship or like likes like. I am not an exception. I didn’t know what that lesson meant until a few centuries afterward. I’ve made mistakes in my life, Twilight. I’ve corrected what I can, but understand that Luna was my own anchor, and without her, I started to drift. It was small things, at first. Nigh inconsequential.

At this, Twilight saw smudged ink stained into the parchment where a single splash marred the page and was brushed away.

You are too young to feel the full burden of rule. There are those that place absolute stock in a ruler’s word, their every whim and desire. I could have had terrible things done for my amusement, and to my everlasting shame, all it took was a word. Power corrupts, dear Twilight. In darker times I would reflect on my deeds. I was a good princess, I told myself. I believe I am today, but good and bad isn’t such a clear, binary measure of one’s worth. A wicked pony can still be honorable. A good pony can still commit terrible sins.

I knew my sister would return one day, her wrath greater and more terrible than ever before. I didn’t care. I loved her, and I didn’t care. I could have faced a demon, or the gentle eyes of my Luna, but I had lost myself. I had been drifting for so long, I didn’t even know what I stood for anymore. As her return drew nearer, I had lost my sense of right and wrong. I was going through the paces of life and rule one day at a time. I firmly believe if I had met Nightmare Moon that solstice, I would have given myself over to the darkness.

And that’s when a miracle happened. You.

I’ve loved and lost subjects and students, but never in all my years had I met a pony who could surpass me, who aspired to so much with such a love of learning. You were my savior, my reason to be. I watched you grow and develop into a blade of hope and sacrosanct values. I dried your eyes when you were sad and praised your achievements. You were my anchor to keep me from a suicidal end.

Starswirl has passed. One day, Sunset Shimmer will pass. One day, you will pass. One day, my sister and I shall pass. Regardless of the inevitability, everyone in my life has given me so much joy. Love your friends, Twilight. Love them and never let them go until their passing is at hand. When that time comes, know there will be those around you to help you shoulder that burden. Remember the good times and bad, and share a drink with those that remain over a fire. The scar will remain, but the wound will heal.

No doubt I have given you much to think about. Day or night, you are always welcome in my walls. I understand the contents of this letter may have some ramifications, and I invite you to the castle for a personal talk at your convenience.

With you until the end,

Celestia

To keep oneself grounded.

Twilight's friends were there through the good times and bad. They laughed at the terrible jokes, and sat with her on a blanket under the warm summer sun. There were there to tell her when she was wrong and had taken things too far. Celestia would have known better than anypony what Twilight felt, or understood the impetus that would drive her to delve into necromantic magics.

Wouldn’t Celestia more than any other embrace her success? Maybe...

So why had it not crossed her mind until now to tell her mentor and oldest friend?

Necromancy was, to put it politely, “frowned upon”, and what would one as kind and benevolent as Celestia think upon seeing her practice such dark arts? As long as Celestia didn’t know, she would see the shy little filly, her innocence unspoiled by the utter terror of being alone. If Celestia didn’t know, she would remain a friend. The friendship wouldn’t die.

“I don’t want to be alone...”

The letter slipped from Twilight’s fingers and flittered to the ground. She made no attempts to catch it and instead slid down against the wall until she was huddled in a ball. Her breath hitched in her throat and at long last she began to cry.

Author's Note

I have a Patreon now that I am on the run from the king. He didn't approve of me climbing to the princess' bedroom.

Patchwork

He had to have known. Spike knew her better than anypony else, likely even Celestia. As she opened the bedroom door, his gaze shifted to her. She saw his brow rise, but he did nothing to question her reddened eyes and instead regaled Screw Loose with an anecdote. She looked completely deaf to his words, but listened with rapt attention either way.

The alicorn shook her head. She needed to clear her mind of Celestia’s letter.

“It’s me again,” Twilight said with a wave. Screw Loose responded with a wave of her own.

What to do? What to do with a pony with such an addled mind who’d been the first in recorded history to have come back from beyond the veil? Consistently checking vitals was a given, along with issue rejection from donor organs, cellular mitosis, and a laundry list of potential health issues.

But what to do about Screw Loose’s mind?

On one hand, Twilight could help her recall the life of Screw Loose. Pictures, people, events. With time she could hold memories similar to what she had in life. On the other hand, would it be right if Screw Loose’s memories were truly and utterly blank? Morals and ethics were something that was left out of science. Technology and magic were tools. They weren’t evil; how could they be? They were only evil if used with evil intentions. Now was a decision that disregarded scientific methodology. Now was a question of morals. Who was this mare? Did she know she was Screw Loose? If she didn’t, what use was forcing an identity on the pony that she didn’t remember? Was there a mare in there that just needed to be brought to the surface or not?

The timeless question of nature versus nurture...

Twilight sat down next to Spike.

“So, how are you two doing?”

Screw Loose clapped.

“I’ve got her eating out of my hand,” Spike said. “At least someone has good taste in jokes.”

“Well, I’m glad the two or you are enjoying yourselves.”

Screw Loose grasped Twilight’s and Spike’s hands. She ran a finger along Spike’s shiny scales and then up Twilight’s palm and wrist. Twilight shuddered at the feeling of her spider-like digit tickling her skin. The patchwork mare blinked and twitched in a birdlike manner and then picked at the stitching on her arm.

“Hold on there,” Twilight chided as she held a hand on top of hers. “We don’t want you to tear your stitching.”

Patchwork...

“Patchwork.”

“Hmm?” Spike asked.

“I thought of something. Give me a minute.” Screw Loose was running a hand across both hues of her skin, then looking at both of their forearms. “You’re different, yes. You’re not like other ponies.

Screw Loose turned around and looked at something. The bed? Twilight leaned to the side to get a better look. Nothing. Regardless, she and Spike were both caught off guard as the patched pony crawled into Spike’s lap to look over his shoulder. She latched onto his tail and pulled.

“Ow! That’s attached!” Spike hissed. This only switched her fascination to his forked tongue. She stuck out her own and crossed her eyes and served to do nothing else other than throw her off balance again. She collapsed into Twilight’s arms, her eyes trying to focus on who was holding her.

Twilight’s laughter was enough to pierce through the dizzy spell. Screw Loose blinked and, upon seeing the mirth Twilight held, gave her a wide smile.

“Haaaah!”

Screw Loose hugged her. Twilight returned the embrace, her cheek pressed against the stitching across her cheek.

“I’m starting to think she’s not really Screw Loose anymore.”

Spike’s own grin faltered a little. “Sure?”

She shrugged. “At the very least, I don’t think we should give her an identity she might not have anymore.”

Spike chewed his lip. It was the only tell he had. Despite this and Twilight living with the drake for all his life, she still had trouble knowing what he was thinking.

“What do you have in mind?” he said.

“...What do you think about the name “Patchwork”?”

Screw Loose had pulled away and was now looking at Twilight’s tail. Despite it being a little too intimate for her taste, Twilight let the mare run a hand through the strands. She looked at her own tail, a violet and white tuft that contrasted with her pale blue-gray mane.

“I think it suits her.”

Twilight nodded.

“I have a question for you,” she said. She just received a blank, happy smile in return. “How do you like the name Patchwork?”

Patchwork opened her mouth, and closed it. She clasped her hands together and smiled wide.

Spike gave her a clap on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Patches.”

As Rainbow Dash put it, Pinkie suffered from diarrhea of the mouth. Pinkie could keep a secret, but her love of others compelled her to comfort them to such an extent that secrets told in confidence might become public. Twilight didn’t blame Pinkie in the slightest; it was just her nature to embrace and love others.

Spike and Twilight now had a shared secret of their own that could never be told. Patchwork couldn’t go outside lest she be recognized. She wasn’t frightening, but her patchy namesake might unnerve others into doing something unpredictable. Plus, Twilight had yet to plan for the contingency of being outed as a graverobber.

Patches, as Spike had come to call her, needed constant supervision by either Twilight or himself. Spike was designated to morning chore and buying groceries every morning while she took care of a rambunctious Patchwork, while he watched over the mare at night when Twilight needed to do some research. Despite the usual shifts, Patches was an endless well of enthusiasm, exhausting both of them no matter the hour of day.

“What is it, Patchwork?” Resigned or not, Twilight wasn’t one to say no to her winning and innocent smile. Patches finally had clothes that fit her, and although she had access to dresses, Twilight rarely saw her out of pants and a fall sweater. She held Twilight’s wrist and led her downstairs towards her room.

“Twi!” she said and tugged to make Twilight go faster. Every time she heard that, a little warmth blossomed in Twilight’s chest. Patchwork couldn’t speak well, but Twi was still her first and favorite word.

She tripped as she turned a corner, but recovered enough to reach her bedroom door. Be it a side effect of the reanimation or just bad motor control, Patches was extremely clumsy and prone to danger if not observed like a hawk. She tripped and fell on an almost daily basis. Spike’s endless snark earned him more than a few punches, especially when scraped knees or bruised shoulder warranted Twilight comforting a crying Patchwork like a newborn.

Patchwork flung the door open and ran to the corner, thankfully not falling again. Spike had unearthed some colored pencils a few days after her revival and she had taken to them like peanut butter to chocolate. Crude sketches that looked like they were drawn by a preschooler dotted the floor. It had been scarcely two weeks since then but her skills were markedly improving.

“Patchwork, you have to remember to clean up after yourself.” Her words went in one ear and out the other. Patchwork held up a drawing. There was a large purple stick figure with wings and a horn standing next to what she assumed to be Spike. A pink and blue stick figure stood between the pair.

“I think it’s wonderful. Why don’t we show Spike when he gets back?” She was already moving towards the other side of her bed. A small pile of building blocks, a disassembled wooden chair, and scotch tape stood up to Twilight’s navel. Patches stood proudly, hands on her hips.

“Good work! I applaud your creativity, although I do question how you broke a chair into pieces without anypony hearing. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

Patchwork’s memory was as bad as her balance, but if there was one thing she never forgot, it was the names of treats. She squealed in delight and bearhugged Twilight to her ample bosom. Twilight was used to her affectionate behavior and yet a blush still sprouted across her cheeks.

It was like raising a child all over again, at least if raising Spike was by any means comparable. Patchwork had such poor motor function that even something as simple as going from prone to standing had proven difficult. Twilight’s spellcraft and reagent helped revitalize dead tissue, but there was mounting evidence that she wasn’t going to recover her memories.

Twilight sat at her desk, twirling a quill. She always worked best at night. The night was calm, and fewer ponies disturbed her. It was a product of her time in Canterlot.

“Spike!”

Spike slithered up to her room. “Shhhh, she’s asleep, Twilight.”

“She won’t hear us from the basement. Time for a log.”

Spike opened one of her desk draws and pulled out an inkwell and parchment. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Twilight sighed.

“November third, twenty-two thirty hours. It is safe to declare the experiment a success. Our subject, whom we have given the nickname Patchwork, has poor, but developing fine motor skills since reanimation. Despite possessing an intact brain, there are no signs of her memories prior to death. Screw Loose was a carpenter in life, and although Patchwork does have an interest in creative building, it has not progressed any further than that since her reanimation on the fourteenth. She currently has trouble speaking, has few behavioral tics, and struggles with developing long-term memories.

“She has undergone two physicals so far. I have detected no signs of infection from either the vivisection or her current stitching. I have seen heightened levels of protein in her blood, but they are within safe limits. I feared more than anything that she would start showing signs of rejecting organs from Screwball, but I appear to have underestimated the skills of myself and my ever faithful companion, Spike. Yes, Spike, you heard me right.

“Yet despite her childish nature, she is learning faster and faster, managing to complete harder cognitive tasks I assign to her as well as speaking full sentences. It was one of my early worries that she would not break free of her original demeanor, but she has surpassed my expectations. Growing as she may be, what worries me most is Patchwork’s mind.

“I can tentatively conclude that post-mortem brain necrosis has damaged her brain’s neurons to such an extent that they no longer hold the memories of their previous life. Despite my reagent reanimating dead tissue, dead neurons have proven problematic. Reanimated neurons are behaving like baby neurons; they do not adhere to Screw Loose’s patterns in life and thus Patchwork holds no memories of her time alive. She has to create entirely new memories and neural pathways. We shall see if time remedies this... but I am not hopeful. Should my suspicions prove true, the most optimistic future for the Patchwork is she will grow an entirely new personality. She has proven successful in the sense that the dead can be brought back to life... but I can’t help my friends if what comes back isn’t my friends...”

Twilight sighed. She didn’t want to say it.

“The brain has a six to twelve minute limit until death. If the neurons start dying, memories disappear. Six to twelve minutes. All this time, all of my work... unable to halt a limit that’s been there since the beginning of ponykind. The experiment is a success in that I have been able to revive the dead. It’s a failure in that what came back was not Screw Loose. She has been a delight to have in the castle, but I spent these many years working towards safeguarding my friends from an early demise.”

She was always so neat and organized. Being organized was almost a special talent. The next piece of data was in her head. Her mind grasped at the neat and orderly array of facts, only to pull back and end up holding an opaque miasma. What was she supposed to say next?

“I failed, and I don’t know what to do.”

She dropped her quill and rested her head on her desk. All she felt like doing was going to sleep. The full force of her failure hit her now that it had been committed to paper. Ponies could run from death, but she’d always thought her work would cheat it. Now?

Not even I can stop death when he comes for me.

Bodies broken and diseases that ravage can be brushed aside with her work. The body can be rebuilt even stronger than before, but the keystone of life, the very soul, would vanish like her broken dream.

“Do you hate her?”

Spike’s voice was quiet, but earnest. She didn’t want to answer him. He wouldn’t leave until she did.

“I think I hate myself.”

“Because it didn’t work?”

She didn’t look at him. The desk was hard against her cheek and her mane shielded him from view. She just wanted to lie there and just do nothing. Apathy. Loss of purpose. Her goal for the last several years, her life’s work that would have her remembered forever as the one who stopped the unstoppable, gone. She just wanted to sit in her little chair in her little study and wait out the ages until death came for her. Maybe then she’d find out what went wrong.

“I didn’t have friends when I lived in Canterlot, except for you and the princess. Now I have so many and it fills me with such joy. I am so utterly petrified of what I’ll do when everyone’s gone. I’m not scared of dying, but I think about everyone else leaving me and all I can do is just—” Her voice caught in her throat.

Just like the princess said. She sniffed as hot streaks slid down her nose. Spike’s arms wrapped around her stomach. She hugged his chest and the pair of them fell to the floor, hot tears streaming down her face. Twilight used her magic and removed Celestia’s letter from a locked drawer in her desk. She felt the claws gently stroking her back, and his heartbeat flutter as he read about the fear the two alicorns shared.

“I’ll always be there for you, Twilight. You just... have to remember me as I am. All the cool things we’ve done. Don’t think about what it’ll be like when I’m gone, remember all we’ve done together. All my stupid jokes you laughed at.”

Twilight choked as a hiccup and laugh tried to come up at the same time.

“I love you, Spike.”

“I love you too, Twi.”

At times Twilight convinced herself that her work was for the betterment of ponykind. It was as selfish as it could be. She didn’t even know why she felt so much lighter. She felt utterly exhausted and yet at the same time, strangely relieved. Spike’s embrace and Celestia’s letter were the first two times where she was forthright about that lurking fear. She deflated in Spike’s grasp, and as she parted, Spike kissed her brow.

The door opened and the two of them jumped. Patchwork, dressed in her nighty, looked at the pair of them as she rubbed her bleary eyes.

“I told you she’d wake up. She heard your blubbering.”

Twilight elbowed Spike in the ribs. Patches looked between the two. She wasn’t all that bright, but she knew what tears and red eyes meant.

“I think Twilight needs one of your patented hugs, Patches.”

“...M’kay,” she mumbled sleepily.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and collapsed into Twilight’s arms. Together they stayed—a princess, her loyal assistant, and her loving creation—until sleep claimed them one by one.

“C’mon, Spike, it will be fun!”

Twilight had already donned her robe and wizard hat. With a little dye and alchemical paste, she jury rigged a pair of bolts onto Patchwork’s neck and colored her mane and tail a bright white.

“I know Nightmare Night’s fun, but are you sure this is wise? I could stay home with her.”

Patches latched onto Twilight’s arm and tried to glare at him, an effect ruined as she pouted, “Please, Spike? It’ll be fun!”

“She needs to get out eventually, Spike. This is the best time of year for that. The hospital doctors are mostly on staff tonight, and I’ve already written down the schedules of those that aren’t. I know where they will be and no one will recognize her.”

His palm smacked against his head. “I don’t know what’s worse, that you thought of this idea, or that there are ponies actually going to fall for it.”

“Her disguise is perfect.”

“Yes it is!” Patches chirped.

He waved his hand. “This is such a bad idea, but fine. In case anypony finds out, what do you want me to set on fire first?”

“Spike, everything will be fine.”

“That is literally the start of every horror movie ever.”

Patchwork was looking at her with those big, mismatched eyes. She still looked like a puppy dog. Drat, she was already learning how to push her into doing things by looking cute.

“We’ll be back in about ninety minutes.”

“Twilight—?”

“Start with the basement, Spike.”

“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

At Twilight’s request, Patches replaced her sweater with a woolen shirt to show off her forearms. She still carried all of her stitching, but showing the patches on her forearms would help sell the in plain sight disguise. Patches dragged Twilight to the front door. As a foal, she did the same thing to her brother whenever she wanted to get a first edition release of a new book. Shining would smile and indulge her, happy at seeing her elated over something he saw as inconsequential. Patches was physically only a few years younger than Twilight, but the effect was still the same.

Once again she marched, or more appropriately dragged, into town. Spooks and decorations were hung up across every house. Streamers connected street corners and from them dangled paper lanterns that gave the town an eerie glow. Paper cutouts of cats, pumpkins, timberwolves, ghosts, and ghouls were staked in front yards. Patches examined each with endless glee.

As they started seeing crowds, Patchwork started to get some eyes. Some, especially the costumed foals, wanted to check out her makeup. Patchwork was thrilled at seeing the little ones, but Twilight shooed them away when they got too interested. Touching would ruin the, uh... makeup. Yeah.

As foals with short attention spans often did, they moved onto the next house bloated with candy of the stands across town. Patchwork was too old to trick or treat, even if her developing mental state was roughly the same. Bobbing for apples might be a little troublesome. Shooting gallery? Even with cork bullets, something would go wrong. The pair of them ended up walking around until finding themselves in front of a stand with a circular duck pond. The curator, a husky stallion that was on the Ponyville work crew, got up from his stool and delivered a practiced spiel.

“Now the name of the game, ladies, is pick and choose. Each little duck has a number on the bottom and you’re free to pick anything on the shelf with that number. Each little ducky floats ‘round and ‘round. There’s no telling what each one has, but that’s part of the fun! Five bits a try and we’ll see what we win tonight.”

He brandished his arms towards the shelves behind him. They were mostly knickknacks, trinkets, and toys. Patchwork’s mind was set.

“C’mon! Toys!” She pulled on Twilight’s arm enthusiastically, her tail twitching in impatience.

Twilight rolled her eyes and reached into her robes for some coin. The stallion eyed Patches after her youthful glee, but said nothing. He likely thought she was a little soft in the head and nothing else. To be fair, he’d be right.

Twilight passed fifteen bits over the counter. “Three tries, Patchwork.” She held up three fingers. The stallion snorted at the name.

Patchwork picked up one of the ducks and turned it over. “Three!”

She tried another. “Three!”

“Two!”

Not top shelf prizes, but Patchwork pointed out her choices without a whine. The curator pulled down two sketch books and a paint set and handed them over.

“C’mon, Patchwork. Let’s see what else we can win tonight.”

Twilight’s cheeks flushed as Patchwork’s warm, wet lips touched her own. Her hand brushed against her burning face as she pulled away. She could feel the slight touch of moisture under her fingertips, and Patches just kept on beaming.

“Uh, um, Patches...?” she stammered.

“Twilight,” she said back. “Thank you.”

“How... Who...” What question would she understand? “Do you know what that was?” Twilight’s hand pressed against the blush that was slowly consuming her face.

‘I think I’m feverish.’

“Spike did it to you.”

Spike never—oh. After she showed him Celestia’s letter, he kissed her head and she walked in after hearing her crying. Spike was a brother in all but blood. Patchwork lavished her with affection whenever she got the chance. Explaining appropriate affection was in Twilight’s future, and possibly the dreaded “talk”. Well, she suffered through one birds and the bees talk with Spike. She could live through another. Or just make him do it.

Ugh. It was becoming hard to think straight.

“You’re very welcome. Now let’s go have some fun before Spike burns my house down.”

It had been a fortnight since Patchwork’s revival, and another since her first trial run. Patches was supposed to be a subject, not a pony. At first. What was she now? Twilight was a thorough note taker, but where exactly had their relationship changed from creator and creation to... whatever this was? Patchwork adored her. Twilight normally wouldn’t have such thoughts, but she had never been kissed by an experiment before either. Patchwork clung to her arm as they wandered through the musical and merry streets, humming happily. Twilight’s thoughts wandered less towards the night and more towards the lovely mare leaning her head on her shoulder.

Author's Note

I have a Patreon now that I am on the run from the king. He didn't approve of me climbing to the princess' bedroom.

It's Alive!

Snow clung to the roof of Twilight’s great castle. Icicles clung to the branches and gave it the appearance of a great, gaudy Hearth’s Warming tree. They were already past the worst of the winter, but blankets of snow covered most of the Equestrian countryside. Being a dragon, Spike wasn’t one to care too much for snow, but it was Twilight’s favorite season.

The small room adjacent to her bathroom doubled as a nurse’s station and contained the bulk of her medical equipment for household needs. The window was open, and even though they were neck deep in snow, the air was warm enough to leave them open for now. Twilight let the winter air cool the bowl of boiling water and the tools lying within.

“Will it hurt?” Patchwork asked. She sat on a stool and fidgeted.

“Not in the slightest. And don’t pick!” Twilight slapped her hand away from fiddling with the stitches on her arm. Her skin had healed plenty since her reanimation, but given the sheer number of stitches she had, it was better to leave them in until now when she was sure they were all healed. It was time for them to come out. Medically, they needed to, but Twilight did so with a forlorn feeling in her heart. Her sewed up appearance was how she knew her, and to Twilight, it was a good look for her.

“Open. Got a surprise for you.” Twilight held up a thermometer.

“Again?” Patchwork whined, but complied and stuck it in her mouth

“Arm.” Patchwork extended an arm and Twilight rubbed the line of stitches with rubbing alcohol. Taking out her scissors and tweezers, Twilight performed the balancing act of cutting her stitches one by one. Gently pull the knot, snip. Pull, snip. Pull, snip.

“It itches.”

“Almost done.”

Patchwork squirmed in the chair as Twilight went up her arm little by little. She had hundreds and hundreds of stitches so there was no chance Twilight was going to get them all in one day, and Patchwork had zero patience to start with. It was an easy task, but slow enough to make Patchwork bob a leg up and down in restlessness. Twilight finished with one row and set her tools back in the bowl. Good, no bleeding. Her stitches were well and truly healed then. She’d still have her patched appearance, but there was no more risk of stitches becoming infected.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.” Twilight’s wings flittered and cooled her back. Patchwork gave her the thermometer. “Very good.”

“Why do we keep having to do this?” Patchwork asked irritably.

“I have to make sure you’re healthy.” Patchwork was plenty healthy; she hadn’t even caught the winter sniffles yet, despite Twilight’s week-long run with it and Spike accidentally incinerating lunch with a sneeze once. Despite that, conclusions couldn’t be given without a consistent stream of data. After almost four months, she had yet to show any ill effects of the procedure. If Twilight didn’t know any better, she’d say Patchwork was a perfectly healthy, home-grown pony.

“But why?” she whined. If there was one thing Patchwork was good at, it was whining. And puppy dog eyes. And getting into accidents. “Is it because I wasn’t born like a normal pony?”

“Not at all. I’m doing this to check if you got sick like I did a few weeks ago, but given you are the first pony to reanimate, it’s best if I know you’re healthy. If something’s ever wrong, the quicker I know, the quicker I can help you. Stethoscope.” Twilight looked around. “Where did I put the stethoscope?”

Patchwork pointed towards the table where Twilight had put extra bandages in case a stitch tore. “Ah! Time to check your heart and lungs. Lift—”

Patchwork pulled her sweater off entirely. Twilight turned on her heels and looked at the opposite wall. One side effect of being “alive” for such a short amount of time was Patchwork didn’t have a sense of modesty.

“Why are you blushing?” Gee, I wonder. “Spike likes to make fun of you when you blush.”

“That’s because Spike is Spike, and Spike has known me long enough to know how to press my buttons.”

Taking a breath, Twilight turned around. Patchwork was biting her lip in thought, a habit she picked up from Twilight. Patches didn’t mind in the slightest that both breasts were on proud display. A patch of pink skin ran along her collarbone, but otherwise her heavy breasts were a perfect blue. Twilight’s legs squirmed as she saw her nipples firming up in the cool winter air.

“Buttons?”

“Spike says things because he finds it funny when I get uncomfortable.” Like now. Her and Patchwork’s relationship was something nebulous and hard to title. It somewhat reminded her of Spike. Ever loyal, ever happy to be in her presence. She’d had the pleasure of living with Spike for many years, however. They knew each other better than they knew themselves. Patchwork... she only desired to be with Twilight. Nothing gave her more happiness than to be in Twilight’s presence. From a day out during Nightmare Night or dark and empty afternoons, to just spending a little time reading a book while Patches drew in her sketchbook.

There was something else there now.

Twilight swallowed. Trying not to look where she shouldn’t, Twilight breathed on the cup to warm it and placed it against Patches’ chest.

“Do I make you un... uncomfortable?”

Patchwork normally held that childish gleam whenever she saw the world around her. Now her tone was reserved and tinged with worry. Twilight dropped the end of her stethoscope and grabbed Patchwork’s arms firmly.

“No, not in the slightest! Patchwork, you are very dear to me and not a bother in the slightest. It’s just...” Boy, how to say this one?

“Then...” Patchwork bit her lip again as she tried to think of what to say. Twilight cut her off before she had the chance.

“Spike and I have been friends for a very long time. Sometimes he says things to provoke a response. He’s not trying to make me sad or angry or anything bad. He tries to make me laugh. He wants to make me see that things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

Patchwork tilted her head to the side. “So... huh? Was I... making you laugh?”

This was a can of worms she was hoping to avoid.

“Patches... what do you think of me?”

Patchwork blinked and cocked her head to the other side. “You’re Twilight. You’re nice and fun and you take care of me. I like you.”

“I... like you too. The thing is...”

Damn, she felt like a schoolfilly trying to explain a love letter to her first crush. She couldn’t keep what she was feeling bottled up forever. One slip of the wrong word and Patches knew something was up with their relationship. She was becoming quite the perceptive pony.

“I like you, Patches, but I... think I might like you a little more than I thought.”

“Is... isn’t that a good thing?”

A smile tugged at Twilight’s lips. Spike was going to need to give Patches “the talk”. This was becoming a lot harder than it should be.

“It is. I...” Twilight took a deep breath. “You’ve been so much fun to have in the house. Spike loves you, I love you, and now that you’re here, I’m not sure what life would be like without you. I’ve watched you smile and learn, and just find everyday things so endearing and fun.”

Twilight could see her piecing things together. The melancholy that she’d been feeling ever since her depressing observation log in October had been steadily filling with thoughts of the mare in front of her. So bubbly and happy, so full of life and joy. She would have loved to introduce her to Pinkie.

Her heart was awash in warmth as long as Patchwork was at her side. Bitterness and fear that had been growing ever since the return of Nightmare Moon was being combated by innocence and the thirst for life itself. Celestia’s letter illuminated so much of her fears, but more important than anything was Twilight wasn’t fearful of losing Patchwork in the slightest when she was wrapped around her arm that Nightmare Night.

“You love me?” Patches asked.

Love...

“I think I do.”

It took another minute for Patchwork to digest that. She leaned back and forth, side to side. Her mind was slow when still, so she liked to think on her feet.

“I think I love you too.”

Patches own cheeks tinted with color that slowly consumed her face. She started kicking her feet back and forth in nervous fervor. Her trembling hands clutched her sides.

A swift and tender kiss planted itself on Twilight’s lips. She blinked. What? It took a moment for her brain to catch up with what just happened. Patchwork just kissed her. The mare looked her in the airs for just a second before looking away with a bashful look that matched her undressed appearance.

“I wanted to push your buttons, too.”

A scaled and tailed figure stepped inside Twilight’s office and closed the door.

“You know, we could just get another bed and move it in here if you want. Anyway, I just had a chat with Patches. Catalog that as something I never want to do again, but it wasn’t nearly so bad or nerdy as your talk was with me. Can’t imagine what it was like getting it from Celestia. Screw Velvet. No offense to mom—she’s great—but I don’t see you asking her about the dance of dual cutie marks and it turning out okay.”

“I learned about sex and reproduction from books, Spike. And please never use that euphemism in my presence ever again unless you want your room repainted pink.”

Twilight had her desk light on and data from this week’s physical spread across her desk. She had been reading the same set of lines for about ten minutes straight and gave up out of frustration. Spike all but swaggered toward her and sat down next to the desk.

“Imagine that. And what did Celestia have to say when you asked her for specifics?”

“Nothing!”

“Hahaha! I don’t believe you.”

Twilight fumed and was silent. She tried one more time to scratch down her results. Hmmm... Patches was putting on weight. The silence stretched as she jotted down number after number. Quiet helped her think. Rainbow Dash liked music for white noise, Pinkie just acted instead of thought. She liked the quiet, but now it felt suffocating.

She put down her quill. “Just say it, Spike.”

He looked up at her. Why did he never sit in a chair?

“Hmm?”

“I know you want to say something.”

He tapped his claws on the floor. For a second, she thought he’d make her wait for a response, but he quickly said, “We haven’t done any experimentation in a while.”

“...Is that a bad thing?”

“Nah. I don’t mind free time. And you’ve got your mind on other things.”

Twilight didn’t say anything. Spike continued, “Honestly, didn’t like doing all the grim stuff that much. We’ve done a lot of grim stuff, Twi. Stuff I’m not all that happy with, but I did it all because it was important to you.” He pulled a vial of luminescent green of the fluid out of his pocket and set it on the desk. “Question is, where are you going to go from here?”

“...If you weren’t happy with what we were doing, you could have said something. I would have listened to you.”

It was an evasion, even he knew that. He answered the unspoken question regardless.

“Yeah, but it was important to you. I love you like a sister, Twilight. I may not have liked all the stuff that led to Patches; the experimentation, the work on animal bodies, digging up graves, breaking into buildings, all that. It was important, and I respect you enough to do it all because I know you’re not a bad pony. It... think of it as a thing of honor. I’m willing to put my own personal feelings aside for our friendship.” Twilight opened her mouth to interrupt, but he held up a claw. “No buts. I did it because your friendship was what I wanted. Not comfort, you.”

Twilight was quiet. Sitting there in the darkness with those green cat eyes staring back at her, she reflected once more on Celestia’s letter. Friends who were there not because they wanted something, but because it was right. Six elements, five friends. Each one was there for her, but more than any other, Spike would catch her if she were to fall.

“It’s times like these, little brother, that I think the element of loyalty chose wrong.”

It could have been the low light of her desk, but she swore she thought his eyes grew a little watery.

“Do you think I’m a bad pony?”

“I think you’re a lonely pony.”

Twilight moved and sat down next to Spike. He held out an arm and she leaned into his chest. Spike rocked them back and forth into the night as the sound of his heartbeat calmed her mind.

“I’m going to stop it all.”

He nuzzled her neck. “Whatever you wish, Twilight. I’ll be at your side.

“I know.”

...

...

“I really need to put a bed in here.”

Green was coming to the trees and the once white ground was turning into a brown slush as this year’s snow was quickly melted by the weather team. Patches wanted to go outside and watch, but she couldn’t just yet. Twilight had plans for that. With a little luck and some time, Patches would be able to go wherever she wanted and leave the castle.

All Twilight needed was one more letter. Now, how to write a letter that may very well ruin her life forever?

“Ugh!”

“Twilight?” Concern was thick in Patchwork’s voice. The slightest bother was met with the mare fussing over her like a mother hen. It was endearing in its own way.

“I’m just trying to think of what to write to Celestia. For once I’m having a little trouble.”

“Okay.”

Concerns of state or even personal matters were vomited onto paper and sent with a flash of dragonfire. That was how easy it had always been. Now that she had dipped into criminal territory, things were a little different.

Patchwork returned to one of her many sketchbooks. She was quite gifted with a brush or pencil. It was the final nail in the coffin that she was her own mare and not another pony made anew. She liked sketching just about everything. She’d sit at the window and draw the town day after day. Spike would skulk about the castle and the two would get together and plan out a comic book. Spike would write the entire thing, and she would draw the storyboard. Patchwork’s favorite subject to draw was none other than Twilight herself.

“You keep moving!” Patches whined. She had the perfect pitch of petulance and shame tactics down to a science, not that she’d need them. Patches would draw her at her desk, in the lab, reading a book, or any way that caught her fancy. More than once it turned into giggling fits and the occasional kisses in a dark room. Despite her knowing exactly what they were doing now thanks to the burden of explaining being mercifully passed onto Spike, the two of them never got farther than some heavy petting.

“Sorry.”

Patches was in the chair that Spike should really use if he didn’t want a bad back. She was hard at work sketching Twilight’s most occupied position chair in the castle. Box after box of papers cluttered the desk. She had gone through each one paper by paper, a task that took even her monumental mental muscles two full weeks to complete. They held the entirety of her notes concerning her thaumaturgical craft and reagent. Everything was in her head and carefully filed away for future use. Now all she needed to do was complete this damn letter that had been blank for the last ten days.

“Fuck me.”

Twilight rarely swore. She knew Applejack could curse up a storm when she thought no one was watching, and even Spike slipped a few every now and then, but Twilight was one to hold her mental integrity in high regard. Concise and accurate statements were her bread and butter, and cursing wasn’t needed to convey that. That taken into account, she still didn’t deny its use in relieving stress.

Twilight blinked. While she was distracted, Patchwork had picked up Twilight’s pocket dictionary and was looking through the pages. She set down the book and hugged Twilight.

The book was open to the ‘F’ section.

Oh, that was a hand reaching down her dress. Bad touch. Bad Touch!

“Patchwork!”

The mare backed off as if struck.

“Did I do something wrong!? I thought you—”

Twilight stood and hugged the mare. “No no no. You caught me off guard, Patches. I was more talking to myself than anything. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

The patchy mare sighed in relief. With all of her stitching removed now, it looked odd seeing pink on blue skin.

“I... thought you were talking to me. I didn’t know that word so I looked it up and thought...” Patchwork blushed and twitched her tail as she trailed off. Neither had mustered up the courage to ask the other to take their relationship to the next level. The scientist in Twilight applauded Patches for taking the initiative. The rest of her was chastising her for not letting that slim hand go a little farther south. Twilight felt a little buzz between her legs.

It wasn’t like they didn’t secretly grope each other when Spike left the castle.

Eh, screw it.

Twilight leaned forward and planted a tender kiss on Patchwork’s lips. It was the exact same kiss Patchwork gave her a few months earlier; promising nothing, requesting everything.

She pulled away. That cute little blush spread across Patchwork’s cheeks. Both mares were breathing heavily. Twilight’s wings twitched. Patchwork’s chest heaved.

The two came crashing together with a fervent need that had been building between the two for months. Patchwork loved kissing more than anything during their brief sessions together. Her lips pulled from Twilight just for a moment to catch her breath before diving back, fighting to release the pent up sexual frustration she’d been feeling for so long. Twilight parted her lips and tentatively let her tongue slip forward to request entry. Patchwork granted it without a second thought. It quickly became a dance that spoke of nothing but the craven need begging to be released.

Whereas Patchwork focused on the lips, Twilight had always found herself drawn to the ample chest. She groped each tit from behind her sweater, squeezing and rubbing where she pleased. There was plenty of her to love, and as her hands roamed, Patchwork moaned into her mouth.

They parted for air again but no more words needed to be spoken. Patchwork yielded to the alicorn and was on her back across Twilight’s desk. Twilight put her hands under the sweater so there was nothing between her and those great globes that she desired. Kisses dotted her throat as she rolled Patchwork’s nipples under her palms. Stray paper, quills, and inkpots scattered as two frisky mares spread themselves across its surface.

Twilight could have worshipped those breasts all day. Hers were pitiful in comparison, and maybe that’s what drew her to lavish each with their proper affection. She circled one breast, memorizing each and every contour so she could commit it to memory. She pinched the other and received a delightful squeak.

Patchwork returned the favor and nipped at Twilight’s neck. She jerked in surprise but her lust-addled mind. Patchwork’s sweater was now getting in the way. Twilight tugged at the hem and lifted. She just wanted it above her breasts so she could satisfy the desire of latching onto one like a foal, but Patchwork lifted her hands so she could remove it altogether. No complaints from Twilight.

Two orbs of jiggling titflesh stared back at her. Twilight couldn’t stop the long, low groan of pure want dripping from her lips if she tried. Patchwork grabbed Twilight’s shirt and that too was promptly discarded. Twilight’s lips immediately fell to the left breast. Her tongue swirled around the nipple, each hand squeezing those massive mammaries for all they were worth. Patchwork wrapped her hands around Twilight’s head and moaned her name.

Twilight moved onto the other breast and gave it a nice, hard suckle. Books about psychology, maternity, fertility, and deviance danced in her head and were all promptly tossed in the mental trash as she nursed Patchwork’s breast. A pair of legs wrapped around Twilight’s back and held her in place. She wasn’t going anywhere. One of Patchwork’s delightful hands drifted lower and started caressing her own breasts along with a returned pinched nipple for good measure. It was enough for Twilight to finally let go of those heavy tits as she was dragged up to Patchwork’s equally divine lips for a wet kiss.

“The bed.”

The two mares rolled off Twilight’s sweat-stained desk and giggled all the way to the bed Spike dragged in a month earlier. Emboldened, Patchwork started pulling on Twilight’s dress. She slipped it off and stepped out, now clad in nothing more but a pair of frilly white panties. Twilight all but ripped the button of Patchwork’s pants off and yanked them down. What stared her in the face was a pair of jiggling thighs inside some lacy blue undies stained with Patchwork’s arousal.

One of Twilight’s undies.

“Oh, you naughty filly.”

Twilight wasn’t thinking in the slightest now. Everything was being driven by an insatiable need to ravish this wonderful creature created by her own hand. Twilight latched onto her panties with her teeth and slid them off Patchwork’s legs, all the while looking her in the eyes and daring her to look away. Twilight took a deep breath and savored Patchwork’s scent.

Apparently her show was enough to inspire imitation, for just as she stepped out of her panties, Patchwork insisted on removing Twilight’s in the same manner. By clumsiness or accident, she missed the first time and mashed her nose into Twilight’s twitching clit. She screamed in delight and watched as Patchwork slid her panties off as well.

The two collapsed onto the bed, naked as the day they were born. Twilight ended up on top again and the pair started giggling like fillies. Each other’s flesh was finally bare with nothing separating them. The two started kissing once again and entangled their fingers in each other’s grasp. Twilight could feel Patchwork’s nipples digging into her own chest and she thrust hers forward. Her leg found a space between Patchwork’s thighs and she started running against her bare crotch. Patchwork squealed and broke away from the kiss at the sensation only to have her lips and tongue captured once again by Twilight. Twilight felt the little tuft of hair rubbing up against her leg and the fluid plastering herself and the bed. Oh, goddesses, she wouldn’t stop this even if Spike walked in. Even if the goddess walked in.

Not wanting to be left out on the fun, Twilight started humping Patchwork’s leg. Her clit, finally being given its due, buzzed enough to make her catch her breath in her throat. Patchwork was already halfway gone. Her love of Twilight’s lips was lost on her and the mare was soon panting and groaning on the bed, her mane fanned out across her pillow. Well, it gave Twilight the perfect chance to return to those fantastic tits of her. She wrapped her arms around Patchwork’s waist and started licking and sucking to her heart’s content. Patchwork’s finger wrapped around her head again and held her in place.

“Twi...Twi...” She couldn’t even finish her name. The pair of them rubbed their bodies over each other as if parting meant death. Twilight’s own clit was burning and begging for more as she mashed her cunt into her marefriend with wanton abandon. Every thrust filled her with a surge of adrenaline like a stallion’s blood running through her veins. Her own orgasm was so very close at hand. So close. So close...

Patchwork came first. Her arms tightened around Twilight’s head and she screamed her release. Twilight’s thigh was complete doused in mare cum and she took great pleasure in smearing it all over Patchwork’s glazed nether lips. As Patchwork stopped seizing and began to come down, Twilight’s own orgasm came rumbling up right afterwards. She felt herself contract and she shouted Patchwork’s name in absolute ecstasy.

Twilight collapsed onto her marefriend’s chest. She moved a little until her head was comforted by those marshmallowy globes. Patchwork’s heartbeat thudded against Twilight’s ear as she snuggled into her chest. She felt exhausted, the lust in her having finally been tempered. Patchwork wrapped her arms around Twilight and pulled her up for one more kiss.

“That...”

“Yeah...”

The scent of sex was heavy in the air, a final reminder of the love the two of them shared. Patchwork was the first to rouse. Twilight was too tired to resist Patchwork turning them both over until Patchwork kneeled over her, eyes between her legs.

“Um...” They just made out on Twilight’s desk and bed, and now she was nervous? “Can I...?”

Twilight chuckled, “Go ahead.”

“I’m not sure what to do,” she muttered quietly.

“All it takes is practice. Did you like what I did with you?”

Patchwork giggled. “Yes I did.”

“There you go. Start with that and experiment.”

Twilight lay on her back and spread her legs. Patchwork bent down to examine her drooling nethers. Her post-sexual high was still making her feel calm and happy, and yet as she lay there splayed open like a common trollop, the all too familiar buzz of excitement rekindled. Patchwork nervously put a hand on each thigh.

“It’s all okay, Patches. Start with whatever you like.”

“What if... you don’t like it?”

“Come here,” she beckoned. Patchwork obeyed and leaned forward. Twilight cupped her cheek and pulled her in for another kiss. Unlike their previous passion-filled amore, this was soft and tender.

“There is nothing you could do that I will hate, Patches.”

Patchwork smiled happily and dove in for another quick peck on the lips. Her goal reinvigorated, she resumed examining Twilight’s vagina. She brushed her hair out of the way and leaned forward.

“You smell different.”

Twilight giggled. Out of all the things to say...

“Sex inherently has some strange smells.”

“I didn’t believe Spike. But you smell... nice.”

Patchwork continued her examination. Her hands caressed Twilight’s thighs until they came up to the little cleft between her legs. Her breath caught in her throat as a finger trailed along the little slit. She watched Patchwork examine the slick fluid stuck to her finger before the curiosity became too great and she licked it.

“That tasted weird.”

“All females do that during sexual arousal. Even you.”

Patchwork looked down to her own sticky thighs. Twilight couldn’t stop herself from moaning as Patches slid a finger across her own nether lips and tasted herself.

“I think I taste better.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Twilight purred.

Twilight twitched as Patchwork ran a hand across her mound. Her own clit was buzzing with excitement and ready for another round now that Patchwork was willing to return the favor. A pair of fingers spread her labia open and she felt the cool air.

“Now most of the vagina is an erogenous zone, Patchwork. There’s the labia—those are the lips, the vagina is the passage, and you see the little nub at the top?”

“No.” Patchwork bent lower.

“There’s a little hood a the the top. You might see a little nub under it, and that’s called the clitoris—” Twilight bucked her hips as it was stroked by a little finger.

“Found it!”

At least she was eager.

“Alright, now do what you like.”

Patches held Twilight’s nether open, poking and prodding as she pleased. A little nod or shake from Twilight guided her every step of the way. A little clit rubbing here, a stroke across the labia there. Twilight kept up her assurances and soon Patchwork was emboldened enough to slid a finger inside. Twilight’s hum of delight caused Patches to thrust her finger slowly back and forth. Patchwork’s palm pressed against her mound and gently rubbed against her clit.

“That’s it,” Twilight moaned.

Patchwork withdrew her finger and held it up to the light. Twilight swore she was going to taste her marecum again before smile crossed Patchwork's lips. She held her hand out to Twilight, who grinned wickedly and opened her mouth. She suckled Patchwork’s finger and an all new burst of heat flooded her cunt. First her breasts, then her finger. She was beginning to think she had some sort of complex.

Patchwork giggled and squirmed as Twilight wrapped her tongue around her finger, cleaning every little bit of her tart marecum off the offered finger. Patches pulled her hand away, much to Twilight’s disappointment, but those luscious lips replaced them. Patchwork embraced her slender body with one arm and the other slid down to Twilight’s cunt. Two fingers plunged into the molten heat.

“Keep going,” Twilight begged between kisses. “Finish me... mmmm... off.”

Twilight was not one to remain idle and let her hands wandered all across Patchwork’s hefty body. Twilight latched onto her jiggling ass and kneaded the supple flesh in each palm. Patchwork moaned into the kiss and Twilight took over as the dominant tongue. Patches tried a third finger much to Twilight’s delight. Back and forth they plunged and made such spine-tingling pleasure. Twilight bucked her hips in time with each thrust. There were only three inside her, and yet because she was so much smaller, her cunt felt utterly stuffed.

Her spine arched as she came, mashing her breasts into Patchwork’s side. That lovely hand and perfect lips didn’t dare part as they loved the alicorn from both ends. Patchwork giggled in delight at finally getting her off. This orgam wsn’t nearly so desperate, bestial, or powerful as her first, but it lasted much longer.

Twilight collapsed, panting. A trio of fingers pressed against her lips, and she began licking them clean with a herculean effort. She felt utterly drained and exhausted, her orgasm stronger because of who caused it. Never in her life did she feel more relaxed when Patchwork’s naked body curled up next to her. Tired as they were, they sleepily embraced each other as the sun died for the evening. Twilight cuddled into Patchwork’s chest, and the latter rubbed her hair as they basked in each other’s love.

Dear Celestia,

Now you will have to forgive me. I know I haven’t responded to your reply with a letter or a visit, but several things have been on my mind. I’ve stewed over your response for a long time. If it were a puzzle or a test problem, I’d have an answer in a snap, but this was something much deeper than a superficial worry or a friendship problem.

I suppose you could call it an inch deep, but a mile wide. This fear I’ve had in no way crippled me or prevented me from going about my daily business, but it was always there, ever-present. It was like a harmless spirit, but a spirit that never stops watching. I’m not scared of dying. Perhaps that’s just ignorant posturing, but experience has taught me that I can equip myself against threats. I’ve faced danger before, but this particular nagging doubt was something that can’t be defeated, bribed, or reformed. It is just something that exists.

I know there’s such a thing as death anxiety, but does that apply when speaking about others and not one’s own mortality? Regardless, that feeling has been unconsciously motivating me for some time. I’ve read the stories before. I’ve read reports about ancient necromancers raising the dead when soldiers were few. Unkillable revenants rising from the afterlife to serve a master’s will gave me the occasional nightmares as a foal. I never liked the idea of a soul being forced from its peaceful slumber to unwillingly do another’s bidding. The stories say revenants kill their masters just to return to their sleep. I don’t blame them.

I am such a hypocrite.

There is no easy way to say this, Celestia. I’ve done things I haven’t told you about. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve turned my back on some of your teachings all in the name of protecting my friends. I did so because I was endlessly afraid of a coming storm that I had foolishly believed I could avoid.

I was so fearful of the future and what it might hold that I blinded myself to the present. I began asking myself what would I do when the parties stopped? The outings ended? The kindness withered? The family died? The fun ceased? I stopped seeing what I had and started dreading what I would lose.

I’ve tainted myself. Even though I haven’t physically harmed anypony, I committed a grave sacrilege all because of some misbegotten fear. The one good thing that came of that fear was its very cure, although not in the way I so foolishly hoped. I’ve learned to embrace what I so thoughtlessly cast aside over some misplaced sense of altruism. I’ve learned how little I understood the love of those dearest to me, even when I’ve been by their side for years. I’ve learned the depths people will go to for love, even at the cost of their own likes and values. I’ve even learned how to love.

I will be coming to Canterlot next week, and I’d very much like you to meet her.

I’ve done some bad things, Celestia. I know you may not agree with what I’ve done, and I accept that. All I ask is that you understand what I want to tell you and why I did it. If I was your safe harbor in those dark days so long ago, I ask you to please be mine. Spike has been utterly wonderful during these past years. He’s done so much for me out of love. I don’t deserve him. I think he’s tearing up a little and I know he’s not going to grow a pair and write that down. Sorry, don’t write that, Spike. I’m getting emotional.

I love you, princess, through the good times and bad. I look forward to seeing you soon.

Your loving student,

Twilight Sparkle

Spike rolled up the scroll and handed it to Twilight, a glimmer of tears glinting in each other’s eyes.

“You sure it’s a good idea, showing her to Celestia?”

“Yes.”

“I know how much you’ve grown attached to her. Tell her too much, and the law might tie her hands.”

“It won’t come to that.”

Twilight tied, sealed, and stamped the scroll. She didn’t even hesitate when handing it back to Spike.

“And all of this,” he said, nodding towards the piles of research notes and the refrigerator containing the last stock of reagent. “She might want to see some of it, if for nothing other than proof.”

“Burn it all, Spike.”

“I know I asked before, but I was kidding about setting fire to everything.”

“I’m not.”

Spike’s poker face was back. Twilight just felt tired.

“You going to be okay?”

“Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.”

The last stage. The weight was gone from her shoulders. She wanted a Pinkie party, apple cider, Dash’s pranks, Spike’s terrible jokes, everything she’d ever loved stuffed into a single morning.

“I want to introduce Pinkie to Patchwork. You want to come?”

Spike looked at her as if he’d never seen her properly in his life. He picked up a box. “Yeah. See you in a bit.”

Author's Note

I have a Patreon now that I am on the run from the king. He didn't approve of me climbing to the princess' bedroom.