As Princess Twilight Sparkle adds the finishing touches to the dining table, smoothing out the bronze tablecloth, compulsively straightening the silverware and crockery, making sure the recently lit candles haven’t dripped wax anywhere, she shivers, turns around. It is cold tonight. Walking over to the open window, Twilight gazes out at the stars, both those of Ponyville below and of the sky above, then quietly closes it. The nights are coming sooner and growing longer now, the darkness more confident, more absolute in its aptitude to encompass. She wonders what her friends are doing. She has sent Spike away for the night, and she hopes that he is not too troubled by her behaviour of late. She's not been herself, that much is certain.
Turning from the window, the Princess scrutinises the table one final time, anxious. It is a large, wooden affair, rectangular, excessive, and at this point in time, all the chairs save two have been removed, only those at either end remaining. Only one thing left to do, Twilight decides, exhaling shakily.
Entering the castle kitchen, Twilight turns off the stove and picks up the simmering pot of soup with her magic, welcoming the pleasant warmth of the energy which courses through her veins, her being. The raspberry aura throws the room into a striking clarity, eerily beautiful, and leaves her blinking away the afterglow as she returns to the table, stepping through the gloom. Carefully placing the pot in the direct centre of the arrangement, Twilight, for no particular reason, glances over at the deep, sweeping shadow that inhabits the majority of the space, impenetrable at the corners, the ceiling non-existent, falling forever upward. She shivers again, cold even with the window shut, wanting a blanket, but unsure of whether or not tonight is to be a formal occasion.
When the Princess looks back at the table, the creature is sitting slouched over in the chair at the opposite end. As always, her prisoner’s dirty, emaciated appearance fills Twilight with a frightful loathing, a passionate disgust, guilty but somehow entirely justified. Its fur is filthy and matted, its mane is overlong and disheveled. And those eyes. Twilight shudders involuntarily, then looks away, embarrassed. Over the course of this longest of years, she has learned never to gaze into the creature’s eyes, for to gaze into them is to gaze into dark pits from which one cannot ever hope to emerge in one piece. They are like hatred, liquid hatred, and an awful hollowness brought about by unrelenting despair. The scarred, tattered flesh, crisscrossing, bare patches like tattoos, is similarly difficult to look at.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you here,” Twilight says with a strained smile, taking a seat, just about sinking into her huge, throne-like chair.
“I assure you that I’m not,” her prisoner rasps, gullet full of dead leaves and broken glass.
Twilight winces, clears her throat. “Yes, well… it’s been a year, and I just figured that we may as well… I don’t know, eat together. For once.” She offers another smile, smaller. “And I have a story to tell you.”
The creature keeps quiet, glowering at her. The insanely powerful binding enchantment Twilight has cast over it leaves a faint blue outline, which is what the Princess focuses on when she addresses her prisoner. Just makes it easier. Anything to avoid those terrible eyes.
“I made carrot and mushroom soup!” Twilight adds brightly. “With shallots! I know how much you enjoy it. Isn’t that great?”
Still the creature says nothing, and Twilight swallows nervously. She uses her magic to ladle out soup for the two of them, first for the prisoner, then for her, steam from the hot, creamy liquid rising up into the perpetual dark overhead.
Twilight blows on her soup self-consciously, trying to conceal how vehemently she inhales the dish’s delightful aroma. It is her favourite meal. Then she frowns. Something’s wrong, she thinks. Something’s missing. There is definitely… “Oh!” Twilight exclaims, a little louder than intended.
The creature noticeably flinches at the sound of her voice, and Twilight feels her throat constrict painfully.
“I’m so sorry,” she tells her prisoner, flashing what she hopes to be a reassuring smile, or at least something vaguely resembling one, “I completely forgot about the bread!” She smacks her forehead exaggeratedly. “Duh! Silly me.” Twilight stands. “I’ll be right back, so don’t go anywhere! I mean, not that you can, but…” Twilight stops, coughs, laughs slightly hysterically. “Ha, ha… be right back.”
The Princess hurries out of the room as quickly as she possibly can, not even bothering to appear unconcerned. She passes through two doorways on her way to the kitchen, one of shadow and one of crystal, both equally terrifying, both equally manifest, and having arrived, Twilight immediately slides down onto the cold, glassy floor, her back, her wings pressing up against the stove, and pants. Her heart is screaming, smashing against her ribs, so hard, so fast, and so loud that she can just about hear it echoing off the walls. She wants to cry – she needs to cry – but now is not the time. She must do this, or else it will just continue tearing her apart until she goes utterly insane. But she’s so scared. Terrified. She knows that she must be brave, but she has been brave all year, and now, she is being forced into something infinitely worse than having to live with an impossible scenario: she has to take a risk, a risk of which there can be no predictable outcome, and certainly not one that is in any shape or form happy.
Eventually, Twilight stands, concentrating on her breathing, and makes her way back to the dining table, the loaf of fresh, thick-crusted white bread levitating behind her.
“Got it!” she announces, sending two generous slices flying through the air and onto her prisoner’s side plate. No acknowledgement.
Twilight sits, dips a chunk of her own bread into the soup, pops it into her mouth. It tastes just as wonderful as always, and even more so, what with the cold, but the circumstances in which she finds herself, nonetheless, prevent her from enjoying it quite as much as she would have liked. Twilight swallows.
The creature is staring into its bowl intently, as if searching for something, but makes no move to begin eating.
“W-what’s the matter?” Twilight at last inquires.
Her prisoner does not look up. “You’ve ruined the dish for me. I’ll not eat this.”
Twilight feels her face growing hot, her eyes prickling. She blinks the tears away furiously. “I’m… sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”
The creature grimaces, pushing the bowl away, then begins tearing into the bread with an animalistic savagery.
“Would you like to hear the story now?” Twilight asks hopefully. “It’s an interesting one!”
Her prisoner snorts bitterly. “What the hell are you asking me for? You’re going to tell it either way.”
Twilight sighs, rubs her eyes tiredly. “You don’t have to… be like that, you know?”
The creature grins at her, a twisted, jagged monstrosity. “Like what?” it asks mockingly. “Like what, Twilight?”
The way it spits her name as though it’s an insult makes Twilight sick to her stomach, and looking down at her own bowl of soup, half-full, she realises she has lost her appetite.
After a moment of the most suffocating silence, the Princess finally begins to speak anew, still looking down:
“Three ponies volunteer to participate in an experiment. Each pony is given the identity of one of the others – their memories, their personalities, everything – but without being made aware of the fact that a). they are impersonating a real pony, and b). they are not alone in their undertaking of this experiment. The three ponies are introduced into a foreign environment and tasked with convincing ten strangers that they are who they say they are over the course of one day. They are not permitted to carry any means of identification, either their own or that of their new persona. Following their allocated routes, the three ponies, having meticulously studied their new identities, make easy work of the first nine strangers they come across, but at the last stop, they all three of them overhear their impersonators interacting with their own tenth stranger. Naturally, the three ponies immediately confront one another and realise they have been tricked. However, when they go to see the experiment’s conductor to demand an explanation, they are shocked to discover a completely different pony with the same name living at the residence.”
Twilight looks back up. “What does the experiment prove?” she asks her prisoner, who, to her dismay, doesn’t even seem to be paying attention.
“Why should I care?” the creature yawns uninterestedly, dipping its blackened appendage into the soup, pressing it into the tablecloth, then inspecting the resulting stain vacantly.
“Please,” Twilight whispers pleadingly. “Please answer. What does the experiment prove?”
Her prisoner sits up a bit, looks at her with what just might be vague curiosity. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you? Well, would you look at that,” it jeers disbelievingly, “the Princess of Friendship finally losing it!”
“What does the experiment prove?” Twilight persists softly, pathetically.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the creature replies scornfully. “That, like essentially everything in linear, third-dimensional existence, the concept of identity is purely subjective? That ponies are actually stupid enough to volunteer for experiments involving identity theft? What do you want me to say?”
“No,” Twilight replies, her eyes glazed. “The experiment proves simply that pretending to be somepony else is fun, even alleviating. It’s escapism in its purest form. That’s why acting is such a popular profession, why personality disassociation exists.” She is silent for a time, then continues. “You know, back when I first became the Princess of Friendship, in my spare time, I used to travel to various Equestrian locations in disguise and just… interact with random ponies because it felt good not to have to... deal with myself. With the responsibility that came with being Princess Twilight Sparkle.”
Her prisoner claps sarcastically. “Congratulations, you are a certified nutcase. Bravo.”
Outside, the wind shrieks and wails like a demonic chorus of the night, rattling the windowpanes as if attempting to gain entry. Twilight at last raises her head, trembles. “It’s cold,” she tells the creature matter-of-factly. “I’m gonna get myself a blanket. Would you like one?”
Her prisoner shrugs. “By all means.”
This time, Twilight teleports. She doesn’t much feel like dealing with the dark at this point, and thus, within mere moments, she is back, two soft, comfortable-looking spare blankets flowing behind her, one red and white and square-patterned, the other a plain midnight blue. Tentatively approaching the creature, Twilight gently drapes the former over its shoulders, then does the same to herself with the latter, before sitting back down in her chair.
“What is a sentient being?” she suddenly asks her prisoner.
The creature looks confused. “What?”
“What is a sentient being?” Twilight repeats patiently. “What is consciousness?”
“Atoms,” her prisoner responds, “which make DNA, which make genes, the precise configuration of which, when combined with the environment of upbringing, determine how the vessel will react to the various stimuli comprising existence. Why are you asking me this?”
Twilight nods slowly. “And memory? How does memory factor in?”
“Well, as I already said,” the creature continues, still looking rather perplexed, “although famously unreliable, how one processes and interprets memories is solely reliant on the determinism resulting from both nature and nurture, which allows for progress, as well as being fundamental in the formation of a sense of subjective identity.”
Twilight again nods. “You do know why we’re discussing this, don’t you? Don’t pretend you haven’t guessed.”
Her prisoner snorts contemptuously. “Well, naturally. Only, it’s far too late. What you did to me can’t be reversed. You made certain of that.”
Twilight grimaces as images she has been fighting so hard to suppress emerge from the black abysses of her mind, pulsing, writhing to the surface. “I have a confession to make,” she says, eyes only for the silverware.
The creature regards her with sardonic amusement. “What do I look like? A priest? Are you really sure you’d like to go down this path? Cos there’s no turning back, you know.”
“I know,” Twilight responds. “And to be perfectly honest, this… this isn’t a new thing. Ever since, well… you, I’ve been in doubt almost every second of every day. Recently, it’s gotten worse, but I haven’t had the courage to do anything about it until now.”
“This won’t solve a thing,” her prisoner tells her flatly, or as flatly as a creature with a voice like gravel can sound. “There’s only one way to resolve this, and you know precisely what that is.”
Twilight shakes her head decidedly, quivering. “N-no, that’s... that isn't an option. No way.”
“Oh really?” the creature snarls, holding up its appalling, serrated limbs for Twilight to see. “I mean, after what you’ve already done, I’d say killing me in cold blood would be the least you could do. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that that’s what you owe me!”
“I can’t do that,” Twilight insists desperately. “I... I can’t! A-and you know why! Are you going to let me confess or not?”
Her prisoner laughs mirthlessly, a truly grotesque sound. “Why don’t you just go all the way and take my voice from me?” it challenges. “I wouldn’t blame you, nor would I be surprised. I think we’ve learned a lot this past year about what the Princess of Friendship is capable of!”
Twilight feels the tears sliding silently down her face. She is afraid, but above all, she is tired. Exhausted. She hates herself, wants to be somepony else. “Are you going to let me confess or not?” she murmurs once more.
The creature sighs, waves an indifferent claw. “Do what you want. It makes absolutely no difference to me.”
Twilight can feel her chest tightening, her coat becoming saturated with a cold sweat that soaks into the blanket around her shoulders, chilling her to the bone. Can she say the words? Can she really do it? She has essentially spent the entirety of the last year all but erasing them from her vocabulary. Is she really strong enough to admit her uncertainty?
“Well?” her prisoner demands, unimpressed. “If you’re really so hell-bent on doing this, get on with it!”
Twilight swallows, her mouth, her throat dry. Before her on the table rests her bowl of carrot and mushroom soup, now little more than a cold, brown puddle, everything she adores about the meal departed. But so it is with all things, good and bad. The all-encompassing fade.
“I…” Twilight begins, stops.
“Here we go,” the creature remarks dispassionately.
Twilight promises herself she’ll keep it together.
She meets her prisoner’s eyes.
“I confess… that I’ve never known for sure which of us is the real Twilight Sparkle.”
